


Enekpe's Clock

by sunshinesundae



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M, Magical Artifacts, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Time Loop, Time Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10931988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinesundae/pseuds/sunshinesundae
Summary: An Order mission gone terribly, terribly wrong leaves Draco dead and Hermione trapped in a time loop, doomed to relive it. Can she save his life, or is fate a force too strong to fight? War AU. Romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little different to my previous Dramione fics. In actual fact, I'd say this has been my most ambitious tale to date. How can you tell a love story when one of your characters keeps dying?! The story was written for the Hawthorne & Vine If the Prompt Fits fest 2017, in response to a prompt by sinopia (basically this story's summary). It's a War AU, and picks up with our heroes searching for a way to trace Horcruxes. Hopefully, any changes to canon will come across as you read it.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy this story. As always, I am just playing with JK Rowling's characters, and all comments and critiques are welcome!

Just one more.

Ever since she was a little girl, Hermione had always wanted _just one more_. One more story. One more chapter. One more page.

Her mum would smile and roll her eyes but acquiesce, the two of them tucked up in bed together, munching on chocolate fingers. Years later, her dad would frown and threaten no pudding for a week if she didn't put that torch down and _go to sleep_.

And her late night reading had continued right through her time at Hogwarts, although then her books were no longer whimsical tales of enchanted trees and ginger beer, but fat textbooks and tomes about a world she'd never known: books Harry and Ron found deathly boring but which she devoured hour after hour.

Even now—now her reading was for more desperate purposes, now their very lives depended on the information she could unearth—she couldn't help it. She read and read. No matter the day. No matter the hour. No matter how little sleep she'd gotten the night before, or the night before that.

And evidently, it drove Draco Malfoy _nuts_.

He scowled at her from the sofa, where he lay flat on his back, blond hair in disarray, dark smudges beneath his eyes. And Hermione sympathised with him—she did! They'd been at this for months and with no luck—but this was their _assignment_ , there were people depending on them, and she'd be damned if she let it beat her.

"If you pick up another book, Granger, _so help me_ ," he threatened as she reached towards the teetering pile beside her.

"Just one more," she promised, "and then bed."

He'd perked up at that and arched a brow she'd known him long enough to read.

"Our _own_ beds," she said blandly, flipping open the book.

He sighed, dramatically and with what she was sure was feigned disappointment (because how could it not be?), and selected another book from the top of his own stack.

They read in companionable silence for a while, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock, the rustle of pages turning and the distant crash of waves. Her hair, pinned up haphazardly with her wand, tickled the back of her neck, and she adjusted it, moving the book with her head so she didn't have to interrupt her reading.

"As enthralling as you hoped?" Draco asked drily. A glance told her he was watching her, a teasing lilt to his mouth.

"Captivating," she said, although it wasn't. Not particularly.

"Let me guess," he said. "It's a step-by-step guide to defeating You-Know-Who?"

If only it were so easy. She ignored him, turning the page and reading on. Unfortunately, she should have learnt by now that that only spurred him on even more.

"A top secret recipe for the perfect Victoria sponge? Ten steps to pleasing your man?"

"You've got your own book." She gave him a stern frown. "Now be quiet and read it."

He smothered a laugh but did as he was told, and enjoying the blessed silence, Hermione concentrated on her book once more.

It still wasn't particularly riveting. The back cover had promised an in-depth study of the darkest spells, but compared to the Dark Lord's magic—terrible magic she'd been unfortunate enough to witness first-hand—it was nothing but child's play.

With a sigh, she glanced up—perhaps Draco was having more luck—and realised he had his eyes closed, both hands tucked behind his head as the book hovered, open, above him.

So _that's_ why he'd gone so bloody quiet.

"Have you forgotten how reading works?" she asked, tetchy with tiredness.

A smile stretched across his face as, eyes still shut, he gave a lazy wave of his hand. The book turned a page.

"Not at all," was all the irritating sod actually said, but his stubbornly closed eyes gave Hermione a flash of wicked inspiration. She tugged her wand from her hair and pointed it straight at him.

" _Finite_ ," she said, and the book came crashing down. Right on his head.

"Right," he said, shooting upright with a glower. "I'm done."

"Spoilsport," she said mildly, twisting her hair back up and pinning it in place with her wand. "You haven't even finished the book."

"There's nothing in here," he said, flipping through it. "Just some old, irrelevant wizard pontificating on the implications of immortality." He paused, suddenly, then turned back a page.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. I…" He turned another page, lips moving silently as he read. Hermione pursed her own in annoyance.

" _Malfoy_."

When he still didn't reply, she snapped her book shut to scowl at him—"Malfoy, I swear…"—then cut herself off as his eyes, bright with victory, darted up to meet hers.

"I think I've found something," he said.

 

* * *

 

The war, Hermione had realised, would never end so long as Voldemort was still alive. It had taken them an embarrassingly long time to work out why the blasted man, if he could be called a man any longer, was so ludicrously impossible to kill.

Horcruxes. Six of them, to be exact.

Harry had destroyed one, quite unknowingly, in their second year at Hogwarts. And before Dumbledore's death, almost five years ago now (Merlin, how time flew), the older wizard had destroyed another.

That left four, not including the Dark Lord himself, and as the country slipped further into the Death Eaters' clutches, Hermione despaired of ever finding the others.

Which was why she and Draco were here, tucked away in this sand-swept safe house on the Dorset coast, a new stack of books delivered to them daily.

Their simple task?

Devise a way to trace the Horcruxes and destroy the Dark Lord once and for all.


	2. Chapter 2

When Hermione woke up, the first thing she realised was that her back was absolutely killing her.

The second thing she realised was, in fact, the very reason for the first: she hadn't made it to bed last night and had instead fallen asleep on the hard wooden floor of the library, slumped atop open books and crumpled sheets of parchment.

She blinked groggily in the early morning sunlight then slowly, grimacing all the way, pulled herself to a seated position.

After their breakthrough last night, she and Draco had stayed up another hour or two, poring over the book and several other useful tomes they found further down his pile. Eventually, though, she'd started to muddle up her sentences as she read aloud, the words swimming before her eyes, and Draco—bossy little git that he was—had mandated an end to the research and marched her all the way upstairs to bed.

"Sleep," he'd commanded when she'd objected to his manhandling, then closed the door and stomped off down the stairs to his own room.

She'd been quite happy to obey really, despite her protests, but by the time she'd put on her pyjamas and cleaned her teeth, she'd been suddenly quite wide awake, her mind whirring with spells, runes and calculations. Eventually, she'd been able to stand the separation from her precious books no longer, so she'd slipped back into her jumper and jeans, and, wand lit and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, crept back downstairs.

Evidently, she'd fallen asleep at some point. But she couldn't have gotten more than an hour or two—a glance at the grandfather clock confirmed that it was indeed still very early.

She cheered up a little. She might even have time to sneak back to bed before she showed her bleary face to the rest of the house's inhabitants and had to sit through several lectures about pushing herself too hard.

Sadly, however, her plan was thwarted when, on hurrying out of the library and into the hallway, she collided with a very tall, very hard body.

"Bloody hell, Granger," Draco said crossly, catching her arms before she lost her balance. He glanced over her head at the books and notes strewn across the floor, and his eyes narrowed in realisation. "Did you come back down here last night?"

"No," she said, although it was patently obvious that she had.

His gaze raked over her, and she felt herself cringing ever so slightly at the sight she must present: in yesterday's crumpled clothes with sleep-creased cheeks. Especially when he looked so fresh and perfectly put together. He'd clearly had a shower—his hair was damp and he smelt good. Like citrus and something darker, spicier…

The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Well," he said, "I can tell by the bird's nest on your head that you got _some_ sleep at least."

Clearly not enough if she'd been sniffing him. She drew breath, offended, but he was already heading down the hallway towards the kitchen.

"So did you find anything else?" he asked over his shoulder. "Was that monstrosity you call hair worth it?"

_Of all the nerve..._

"Yes," she said indignantly, "but I'm not sure you deserve to know."

"Probably not," he agreed, pausing in the doorway. "You coming? I heard Remus was making pancakes."

 

* * *

 

Molly Weasley raised her eyebrows when Hermione and Draco walked into the kitchen together. She had a basket of laundry balanced on her hip, and inside it, Hermione recognised the hideous floral bedsheets from her room.

She swallowed, mortification flooding her like a hot wave. Molly would have seen her bed hadn't been slept in. Merlin, she must think she and _Malfoy_ …

"Sleep well, dear?" Molly inquired, hiding a smile. Hermione pinked, then chastised herself sharply. She didn't know why she felt so guilty. She'd spent the night on the library floor, after all. And even if she hadn't, well, she was a grown woman. She could spend the night with whomever she chose.

Not that she would, of course. There was no privacy in a house with so many people—people who'd known her since she was a _child_ —coming and going at all hours of the day. Not to mention the only available man here remotely near her age was Draco, and there was not a single chance in hell she was going _there_.

Even if, in her most sleep-deprived, rune-addled moments, she had perhaps considered it once or twice.

"Fine, thank you," she said stiffly and joined the others in the dining room. Despite the early hour, the sky was bright and clear, and someone had opened the huge glass doors leading out onto the veranda. Sand dusted the floorboards beside the doors and a balmy sea breeze fluttered the white muslin curtains.

Remus Lupin glanced up from his newspaper as she took her seat, and smiled his greeting. Beside him, Tonks, whose hair today was short and mad and lilac, was trying to feed little Teddy egg and soggy soldiers. Trying, of course, being the operative word. The toddler was too busy giggling as George Weasley made faces at him from across the table—at least until his new wife, Angelina, whacked him across the back of the hand with a spoon.

Hermione smothered a smile at the man's aggrieved expression and reached for the coffee jug.

It was easy to forget on a day like this that the world was at war. And maybe it was dangerous having so many Order members in one location for any prolonged period of time, but for today at least, they were at peace, and they would cling to it for as long as they could.

"Good morning," Kingsley Shacklebolt said from the head of the table. His arm was in a sling—the only vestige of war marring the serenity of the morning. He and Hestia Jones had arrived at the house just under a week ago, wounded, and dragging a semi-conscious Sturgis Podmore between them.

Kingsley's eyes shifted between her and Draco, whom she had, Hermione realised in dismay, sat beside without thinking. A small knowing smile traced his lips, and Hermione wanted to slam her head into the table.

Was there anyone in this damn house who didn't think she was sleeping with Draco?!

Oblivious, Malfoy reached for the butter.

"Granger and I had a breakthrough last night," he announced, making Remus choke on his tea.

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" Kingsley asked blandly, and Remus snorted again.

"A breakthrough in our _research_ ," Hermione gritted out.

"Really?" Tonks asked, catching Teddy's hand before the little boy pried the lid off his beaker. "What did you find?"

Before either could answer, there was a thud at the door.

"Bloody hell, woman, have you no aim?" Sturgis grumbled as the door opened and a harried-looking Hestia wheeled him inside. It had been his capture by the Death Eaters that had prompted Kingsley's recent rescue mission, and his serious injuries had confined him to a wheelchair ever since. Resident healer Angelina had assured him it was only temporary—although from the way the man griped, one might be forgiven for thinking it was forever.

"Keep moaning and the next thing I aim will be my wand right at your head," Hestia warned, pushing him up to the table.

Sturgis rolled his eyes and muttered underneath his breath, but Hermione knew it was mostly for show. He was in his late forties, a good decade or so older than Hestia, but she was fairly sure there was something of a romantic nature going on between the two of them. She certainly didn't miss the way his eyes softened as the witch set about dishing up his breakfast.

"What did we miss?" Hestia asked as she worked.

"Hermione and Draco had a breakthrough," Remus said mildly from behind his newspaper.

"Really?" Sturgis gave Hermione a wink and a wolfish grin. "We've certainly waited long enough for it."

"And now you're making us wait even longer," Tonks said. She glanced between Hermione and Draco, eyes alight with interest. "What did you find?"

A wail drowned her out, as Teddy finally jerked the lid off his cup and drenched himself in orange juice. Tonks and Remus snapped into action, and a few spells later, the little boy was clean and dry and snuggled in his father's lap.

"What did I miss?" Arthur Weasley asked cheerfully, bustling suddenly into the room.

"Hermione and Malfoy had a breakthrough," George said with a waggle of his eyebrows, and Hermione fought the urge to hex him.

"Lovely, lovely," Arthur beamed, helping himself to toast. "About time too, my boy," he said to a bemused looking Draco.

"What did you find?" Tonks asked impatiently.

"Annotations," Hermione said quickly, before something else in this mad house could interrupt her. "From someone's own personal research." She handed Remus one of the books she'd grabbed before she came to breakfast. "Whoever wrote them had some rather interesting ideas about tracing Horcruxes."

Remus opened the book and squinted at the inside cover.

"Ndidi Mbachu," he murmured, reading the name scrawled inside.

"Crikey, that's not a name I've heard in a long time," Mr Weasley said through a mouthful of breakfast, and Hermione glanced at him, startled.

"You know her?"

"Used to work in the Department of Mysteries. In the Death Chamber, although if I remember rightly, she'd slip over into the Time Room now and again." He jabbed the air with his fork. "There's an interesting connection between the two actually. Time is, in some ways, the _inverse_ of death…"

"Dad," George prompted when it appeared Arthur was warming up for a full lecture. "Ndidi?"

"Oh right! Of course. Yes, she was fired from the Ministry, many years ago, for dabbling in Dark research."

Hermione felt a prickle of excitement. Dark research was exactly what they needed and had, thus far, been unable to find.

"Where is she now?" she asked. Arthur gave her an apologetic look.

"I have no idea," he said. "I'm sorry. It was a long time ago, and I haven't heard from her since."

"There's no reason we can't attempt to locate her," Remus said, catching her crestfallen expression. "If Hermione and Draco think it's worth it?"

"It's worth it," Draco said firmly. "Her research could give us the edge we need."

"Then it's settled," Remus said. "We find Ndidi Mbachu. After breakfast, of course," he added, pushing a plate piled high with strawberries and chocolate sauce in Hermione's direction. "Pancake?"

 

* * *

 

Mr Weasley had a few old contacts from his time at the Ministry before it came under Death Eater control, so shortly after breakfast, he and Remus Apparated away to track them down. The hope was to find some clue to Ndidi's whereabouts—ideally, an address—although it was a long shot. Arthur didn't even know if the witch was still alive, let alone sympathetic to their cause. All Hermione and Draco could do was wait.

It was an agonising hour. Hermione busied herself getting washed and dressed in her usual uniform of jeans and woolly jumper, then wrestled her mad mass of hair into something resembling a braid. That only occupied her for so long though, so she returned to the library, intent on gleaning all she could from Ndidi's notes before they met the woman herself.

It seemed Draco had the same idea, because he was sat sideways on the window seat, thumbing through one of her books.

"Found anything interesting?" Hermione asked, perching herself opposite him.

He shrugged.

"Nothing more than you, I assume." He closed the book, smoothing his thumb across the hard, worn cover. "This witch," he said, shaking his head. "She's a piece of work."

Hermione smiled.

"Yeah."

"Reminds me a little of you," he added with a trace of a smirk. When she huffed and leant back against the wall, he laughed outright. "That was a _compliment_."

She snorted.

"Right. Maybe to your twisted Slytherin mind, it was."

He looked at her a long moment, and her breath caught at the unexpected openness in his eyes.

"She's brilliant," he said, "and so are you. Better?" he asked when she simply stared at him in surprise.

"It'll do," she said primly, recovering enough to grab one of the other books he'd tucked between his thigh and the cushion, then almost immediately regretting it when her fingers brushed warm fabric and solid muscle. She snatched the book away like she'd been burnt. "Let's just hope Arthur is able to track her down," she added to hide her discomfort.

"Let's," Draco agreed, and she felt his eyes on her long after she'd turned away and buried herself in the words on the page.


	3. Chapter 3

Ndidi Mbachu, it turned out, was still alive, still in the country and last Arthur's contacts had heard, _not_ a Death Eater. She owned a small antique store in London, just a few streets away from Leicester Square. Remus was not happy at the prospect of travelling so deep into the heart of London, especially now the Death Eaters controlled so much of it, but he agreed the risk was worth it.

Molly made them promise to take care, then they Apparated away. A broken telephone box shielded their arrival, and the sea of damp coats and black brollies paid them no mind as one by one, Remus, Arthur, Draco and finally Hermione stepped casually onto the pavement.

The bustle of London hadn't changed much since the fall of the Ministry, although it must have been clear to even the most ignorant of Muggles that a deep darkness had settled over the city. There was something about the air, Hermione realised—the way it hung, thick and heavy, and condensed in her chest like tar.

"Come on," Remus said, with a worried glance around. "Let's get out of the open."

When they reached it, _Mbachu Antiques and Curiosities_ looked as if it hadn't had a customer in years. The paint was peeling, the sign was battered, and if you squinted, it looked as if the whole shop was askew, like it didn't quite fit between the upmarket art gallery to the right and the gaudy memorabilia store to the left, so someone had tipped it up a little and crammed it in as best they could.

Hermione ducked beneath the shop's narrow canopy, ice-cold raindrops trickling down the back of her neck, and squinted through the window. It was hard to tell whether it was even _open_ through the heavy, patterned window drapes. Once upon a time, said drapes had evidently been tattooed with vivid, ethnic designs, but now, they were dusty and faded—as old as the ancient African antiques the shop's tattered posters proclaimed to be selling.

Beside her, Draco cupped his eyes against the glass, but after a moment, he drew back and shook his head.

"Can't see anything," he said. "Too bloody dark."

It was, Hermione felt, not a very good sign. The shop certainly gave her a very strong sense of unease, which, she was sure, was exactly the point. Whatever Ndidi Mbachu was up to inside, she certainly didn't want any visitors.

Still, that was precisely why they'd come to her.

Some sort of wooden percussion instrument rattled as Hermione pushed open the door—a visceral staccato beat that echoed much longer and louder than would be expected; a warning, she realised, to the woman working somewhere in the depths of the store—and the four slipped cautiously inside.

It was too dark to make out much of anything, besides the large ominous shapes formed by stacked artefacts and furniture.

"Hello?" Remus called. When no one replied, he lit his wand and held it up, revealing for the first time the tangled treasure trove before them.

It was, Hermione realised, the oddest mix of relics: a gilded chaise lounge half buried beneath stacks of carved wooden elephants, giraffes and tigers; a brass ship's wheel glinting among an army of stout ivory statues with long, strong limbs and warriors' faces; portraits of sour-faced wizards hanging beside vibrant beaded tapestries that rolled and shimmered like the African sun.

From the depths of the store pulsed a low throb of Dark energy, and Hermione stilled, thrown, as it whispered up her spine and spread like electricity across her skin.

A hand, warm and reassuring, at the small of her back.

"I feel it too," Draco murmured, and Hermione shot him a small, wry smile.

"We're definitely in the right place," she said and followed Remus and Arthur deeper into the store. The narrow passages forced them to walk single file, weaving worryingly close to a row of hanging masks, simultaneously beautiful and terrifying with their painted faces and lifeless eyes. Glancing back, she caught Draco peering suspiciously at a particularly grotesque creation. It suddenly snapped its pointed teeth, swinging on its hook towards him, and he jerked away, startled.

"Scared, Malfoy?" she teased, although her hands were shaking too. He rolled his shoulders and shot her a cool glance.

"Of course not. I was merely…" His eyes widened, then he swept into her, dragging her to the ground as a blinding flash of purple light exploded above their heads.

"What—" Her question broke off as another curse sizzled across the room and something shattered loudly above them. The whole shop seemed to heave and come to life as the artefacts around them began to panic, and the air was filled with the groan of wood, the scurrying of tiny feet and the haunting wails of the masks.

"Fucking hell," Draco swore. His body was pressed against hers, and although it was, of course, neither the time nor the place, the thrum of his voice through her chest sent a spark right down to her toes.

"Ndidi!" Arthur hollered above the din. "Ndidi, it's Arthur. Arthur Weasley!"

Hermione held her breath, waiting for another curse, but it never came. A moment later, a small old woman emerged from the shadows with wrinkled skin, a turquoise head wrap and skinny hunched shoulders.

"Hush, hush!" she commanded, raising her arms, and the objects around them settled down with surprising obedience. "Arthur Weasley?" she asked, peering with faint surprise at the four Order members on the floor. " _Arthur Weasley_?"

"Yes," Mr Weasley said somewhat breathlessly. "We used to work together at the Ministry."

"I remember," she said. Her sharp eyes darted up towards the shop windows. "Come, come. We cannot stay out here."

Hermione's gaze veered up to Draco's as he hovered just above her. He shrugged, flashed her a smirk then got to his feet, reaching down a hand to help her up too.

The thrum of Dark energy grew stronger as they followed the old witch to the back of the store, through a heavy beaded curtain, then down what appeared to be a never-ending spiral staircase.

"How deep does this thing go?" Draco muttered, and below them, Ndidi laughed.

"Deeper than the Department of Mysteries ever knew," she said, then tapped her nose. "But you didn't hear that from me."

"I'm not sure the current Department is particularly interested in underground bunkers," Hermione commented, and the witch gave her a secretive smile.

"They would if they knew what I was cooking up down here."

It was, when they finally reached the bottom, very evident that Ndidi had continued her research here. The staircase spilled them out into what appeared, at first glance, to be a tiny, cramped laboratory, filled with cluttered workspaces and overstuffed bookshelves.

But then Ndidi raised her wand, and flares of white light scattered through the darkness. One by one, they settled, lighting lantern after lantern after lantern, and revealing endless aisles of artefacts twisting and turning like a labyrinth in every direction.

"Merlin," Draco muttered in awe from behind her, and Hermione quite agreed. She felt as if they'd just stepped into a real-life cave of wonders; beautiful, enchanting, but one wrong move and the ground would swallow you up forever.

"Now," Ndidi said, lowering her wand and looking expectantly between them, "why don't you tell me why you're here?"

As if on cue, all eyes swivelled to Hermione. She cleared her throat, a little self-conscious under the witch's keen-eyed scrutiny.

"We found some books," she said. "Your books, I think. Your name was inside, and there were annotations—research notes—the whole way through."

"My _books_ ," Ndidi repeated absently. "I wondered when they'd resurface where they were supposed to."

"So it's true, then?" Hermione asked, encouraged. "There _is_ a way to trace the Horcruxes?"

"Oh yes." The lines around the witch's eyes deepened as she smiled. "But it's not easy, and I've never tested it." Her heavy umber robes rustled on the ground as she turned and made her way to a large, teetering bookshelf. "Without a Horcrux with which to experiment, I cannot guarantee the method will be entirely successful."

"We're pretty much willing to try anything at this point," Draco said as they followed.

"This war has gone on too long," Ndidi agreed, sliding a well-worn tome from the shelf and bringing it over to one of the tables. The book hit the table with a thud, heavy with thick ancient paper and stuffed with handwritten notes, and Hermione found herself edging towards it, drawn by the promise of all that knowledge.

This woman had spent an entire _lifetime_ researching what others shied away from. Who knew what sorts of magic she'd uncovered? The power she possessed?

"This is what you need." Ndidi levered the huge hard cover open and shuffled through the crinkled pages. She was leant over the book, finger running down the text, when something—a sound, a feeling, Hermione didn't know—made her still. Her gaze flickered apprehensively towards the empty stairway.

Hermione caught Draco's eye, and he gave her a little shrug, apparently unable to determine what the older witch had sensed either.

"Wha—" she began, but Ndidi held up a finger, gaze still on the staircase.

Hermione slipped her wand from her sleeve, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the men do the same.

Something was there. And she had a pretty good idea what.

"Get down!" Remus yelled, as with a rush of air, the darkness warped into several hooded figures. Hermione blocked a curse—red hot, blistering towards her like a flame—and dove to the ground behind the desk. Potion bottles exploded above her head, and she threw up a hasty shield as glass and hissing steaming liquid rained down all around her.

Ndidi had gone down too, she discovered with a sudden, sickening lurch of her stomach. But it hadn't been by choice. The woman lay lifeless on the floor, her amber eyes wide and staring, unseeing, into the darkness above.

Hermione felt shock seep through her. She hadn't even seen her get _hit_...

"Granger!" Draco's voice snapped her out of her stupor, and she turned to see him crouched behind a desk just a few feet away. "This way," he said urgently, gesturing her towards him.

Her gaze crept back to the dead witch.

"It's too late to help her now," he said roughly. "We have to _move_."

Another curse blasted the desk just above her head, sending paper exploding into the air like a swarm of moths. Decision made for her, Hermione moved. But not before risking her neck to drag Ndidi's book from the counter.

"Granger, now!" Draco barked. Using the paper for cover, she dashed the short distance towards him. He didn't let her pause, though, urging her to her feet and thrusting her towards the nearest aisle. "Go!"

She took off between the shelves, Draco at her heels. Around them, shelves buckled, glass shattered, metal exploded as the Death Eaters gave chase. Deeper into the labyrinth they ran, until Hermione lost all sense of direction. She had no idea where she was going. No idea whether they were too deep below the surface to attempt an Apparition. For all she knew, the spiral staircase was the only way out of this maze.

Between the shelves, she caught a snatch of Remus and Arthur, racing as fast as she, dodging curses, ducking blasts. Her distraction lasted a mere blink of an eye, but it was enough. There was a blinding flash of white light, then a _whoomph_ of energy that blasted all the air from her chest. For a moment, she was airborne, _weightless_ , as the force of it threw her sideways, but then she hit the ground.

_Hard_.

Dazed and winded, she squinted through the smoke. Realised the shelves around her had toppled. Realised the curses had stopped. Someone was shouting, but it seemed so far away. Like she was underwater. She was bleeding, she realised dizzily. Her skin was wet with it.

What… What had just…

"Granger!" Hands grabbed her arms, and Draco hauled her upwards with a crunch of glass. "Shit. You're bleeding." His eyes came into focus, wild and frightened as he searched her face. "You're bleeding everywhere."

"Draco," she whispered. "Draco, look."

From the devastation behind him emerged a tall figure, swathed in black. Dread pooled in her stomach as she realised the Death Eater's ornate silver mask was appallingly familiar. As she spotted a flash of blond beneath his hood.

_Lucius Malfoy._

Beside her, she felt Draco tense. His father's gaze landed on him, and somehow, beneath the mask, Hermione knew his mouth had twisted into a cruel smile. But then those silver eyes, so like his son's, zeroed in on _her_ , and he whipped back his wand.

"No!" Draco yelled, but she had no time to react, no time to register what was about to happen, because the next thing she knew, he had shoved her bodily to the side—so hard she collided with the ground once more.

The Unforgivable hit him squarely in the chest.

_No!_

Green light ripped through his body, sent him crashing into the shelves behind them.

_No_. She dragged herself to her knees. _No, no, please God, no!_

The shelves buckled beneath his weight, and Draco slid to the ground, glass and metal and ceramic raining down all around him.

She wanted to scream but she couldn't. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Simply stared.

He was gone. How could he be _gone_?

Her daze shattered as someone seized her from behind, hauling her up and away. She screamed and struggled, groping vainly for her fallen wand. But a hand caught her wrist.

"Hermione, please!"

_Remus_. It was Remus.

"No!" She fought him blindly. Kicking. Scratching. "We can't leave him!" she howled. "We can't leave him!"

But Remus kept his hold.

"I'm sorry," he panted raggedly in her ear. "We have to."

Then the glimmering lights of Ndidi's labyrinth vanished as, with a familiar and heart-sickening lurch, Hermione was sucked away.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione sat upright with a gasp.

A moment of complete and utter disorientation, then she realised she was back at the safe house. In the library to be exact.

"Remus!" She scrambled to her feet, sending the stack of books beside her tumbling to the ground. _Where was Remus?_

They had to go back. They had to get Draco. They couldn't just _leave_ him there.

The realisation that he was dead, that he was _gone_ , hit her almost as hard as the explosion had. She staggered and grabbed the back of the sofa for support.

No. They had to go back.

"Remus!" she yelled again, racing across the room and out into the hallway. "Rem—oof!"

She collided with someone warm and hard. Someone who caught her as she reeled back.

"Bloody hell, Granger," a familiar voice said grumpily. "What in the name of Merlin are you doing?"

_What_? Hermione's stomach nearly fell through the floor as she stared up at him, frozen in shock.

"Did you come back down here last night?" Draco asked crossly, staring at the mess in the library. He glanced back down at her, noticed her stricken expression. "What? What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"We—we, but you…" she stammered with a helpless gesture. "And _Remus_ …"

He still had hold of her arms, and now he smoothed his palms down to her elbows, uncharacteristically gentle.

"Are you okay, Granger?" he asked, peering at her in concern. "You look—you look a little pale."

Did she? Well, she wasn't surprised. She was, after all, looking into the eyes of a ghost. Except, well, her logical mind was telling her that she _wasn't_. His hands were warm and solid through her jumper; as his body had been when she ran into it.

Whatever the hell had happened, Draco Malfoy somehow wasn't dead. He was alive. He was living, breathing and he was _here_.

The relief she felt was so strong, so intense, her knees almost buckled because of it.

Instead, she ploughed into him, wrapping her arms around his middle in a rib-cracking hug. For the briefest moment, he froze, evidently startled—and no wonder; she wasn't sure she'd ever hugged him before—but then she felt his hands slide across her back, was sure his fingers crept into her mad mass of hair, and felt her chest swell to near bursting.

What that said about how she felt about him… well, she'd save that particular puzzle for later on. _After_ she'd worked out how she'd seen him die only moments ago and yet here he was, standing before her.

"Granger?" he asked after a moment. He sounded more bemused than she'd ever heard, and embarrassment flooded her.

"I…" She drew back and cleared her throat. "Well, I had a strange dream."

His mouth twitched.

"About… _Remus_?"

"No," she said quickly, then hesitated. "About you, actually."

Could it all have been a dream? It didn't feel like it—not in the slightest—but then she'd studied herself into exhaustion last night, had been pushing herself too hard for months, and who knows what madness her brain could concoct in such a state?

"Me?" He arched a brow.

"Don't look so smug," she said, fixing him a flat look. "I said strange not good."

Draco shrugged.

"The two aren't mutually exclusive." He grinned suddenly. "What sort of kinkiness did that mind of yours conjure up last night?"

"I didn't—I wasn't… _Nothing_ ," she gritted out, but he was already heading down the hall. "I barely slept at all."

"Good," he said over his shoulder. "Serves you right for sneaking down here without me. Did you find anything at least?"

"Yes," she heard herself say, "but I'm not sure you deserve to know."

"Probably not," he agreed, pausing in the doorway. "You coming? I heard Remus was making pancakes."

 

* * *

 

 A deep sense of dread had settled in Hermione's stomach by the time she took her place beside Draco at the breakfast table.

Things were… _different_ to her dream.

Molly hadn't smirked and inquired of her night; instead she'd flapped in concern at Hermione's pale face, pressing a motherly hand to her head and promising a vial of Pepperup Potion after breakfast. And the concern had followed her into the dining room: Remus exchanging a worried glance with Kingsley, and Tonks exclaiming loudly that she looked like death warmed up.

But Molly _had_ been folding Hermione's hideous floral bedsheets. And Remus _did_ have a newspaper in his hand. And Tonks's hair _was_ lilac when it hadn't been yesterday.

Little, ordinary, predictable things that, on their own, she could possibly dream up. Yet taken together…

No. She was being ridiculous. Last night's study session must have pushed her over the edge.

She told herself this as Hestia wheeled a grumbling Sturgis Podmore into the doorframe. She told herself this as Teddy tipped his orange juice all over himself. She told herself this as Arthur Weasley breezed in late, asking what he'd missed.

Suddenly not very hungry, she pushed her pancakes around her plate, listening while Draco shared the good news of their findings last night. And what would you know, Arthur _did_ once work with Ndidi Mbachu, before the woman was fired for her more questionable research.

She would wait to hear the witch's address, she decided. And if Ndidi lived in an antique store on that little London street, she would...

She sighed. She would what? Tell them she'd seen the future? Wizarding folk were a lot more open-minded to the supernatural than the average Muggle, but an _entire_ day beginning again, and evidently apparent to no one else but Hermione…

Even Harry, who trusted her above everyone he knew, might have a hard time believing _that_.

But believe it he might have to, because Ndidi's shop was sickeningly familiar.

"Something wrong, Hermione?" Arthur asked as she hesitated on the step. She looked up at his kindly face, creased in concern, before her gaze crept to Draco. He hadn't picked up on her unease and peered into the shop, his hands cupped against the glass, his wand stuck casually in his back pocket.

A chill rippled down the back of her neck, because he was going to die today, she knew it, she knew it with every fibre of her being, and he had no idea.

"I just—" Her voice caught, but she swallowed it back. "I just have a really bad feeling about this."

"You always have a bad feeling," Draco said. He lifted his head from the window and shot her a smirk. "Really, Granger. What's the worst that can happen?"

 

* * *

 

 Hermione hadn't realised she'd been holding out so much hope until events in Ndidi's store unfolded almost exactly as they had previously.

She didn't have time to warn anyone—had begun, as the older witch rifled through her bookshelves, and time stretched long and tense like elastic, to wonder whether she'd really _need_ to—but then it was too late.

Ndidi fell first, engulfed in a blaze of green light. Hermione closed her eyes briefly, her back pressed to the table the Death Eaters had her pinned behind.

"Granger!" As before, Draco's voice snapped her back into focus. "This way."

She wanted to resist, to keep him here, away from his father, but already the Death Eaters—four of them, she realised when she risked a glance—were weaving their way between the tables and toppled bookshelves.

Draco reached for her, and she went with him, dodging spells as they sprinted down the nearest aisle.

Although she'd been expecting it, the explosion dazed her just as much as it had before. She sat on the ground, reeling, as smoke stung her eyes and blood soaked through her skin.

"Malfoy," she rasped as he hauled her upright once more. "Draco, your _father_ …"

But it was too late. For the second time, Draco hurled her out of the way. For the second time, her bones rattled as she collided with the ground. For the second time, he took the Curse meant for her.

The force of the spell flung him back into the shelves. Time seemed to slow as they caved in beneath him and he slipped to the ground, glass and gold and metal and wood crashing down all around him.

Hermione couldn't breathe. Her chest was so tight, like someone had caught her heart in a vice and was squeezing, squeezing, squeezing…

He was gone again. She could have saved him, but she hadn't. _She hadn't_. She'd let him die again. This time, she didn't struggle as Remus dragged her away, simply stared in disbelief and anguish, at her friend, her _partner_ , lying dead on the floor.

With a mighty rush of air, the room warped into darkness. She landed, hard on her back, her eyes screwed tightly shut.

Silence. Except for the crash of the waves in the distance, the faint caw of seabirds, the rustle of wind across the floorboards. She opened her eyes to see dust dancing in sunlight and the sloping roof of the library.

So. Not a dream, then.

Her muscles protested as she pulled herself upright—the back ache, she realised, from spending the night on the draughty floorboards.

It was ridiculous. Absolutely beyond the bounds of possibility. Completely and utterly beyond belief. But she was back where she'd begun. Her day—her _entire_ day and all its terrible heart-breaking events—had started over, and only she knew it had ever ended otherwise.

Something had happened in that store. She didn't know what, couldn't even begin to speculate, but something was sending her—and, inexplicably her alone—back in time when Remus Apparated them out of there.

But how could that even be? Time didn't work that way. Time _couldn't_ work that way. There were laws, natural laws like gravity or the movement of the planets, laws that could not be broken.

Or could they…? Hermione remembered the visceral thrum of magic in the witch's store. It had hummed in the floorboards. It had pulsed in the staircase. It had throbbed in the darkness like a current of electricity.

Perhaps there _was_ something powerful enough down there to bend the laws of time, she reasoned. Perhaps something had been triggered, by accident or by Ndidi herself, when the Death Eaters launched their attack.

Well, there was only one way to find out, and that, she knew, was definitely not sitting here on the floor feeling sorry for herself. She was in a library after all. Books were her domain, her authority when in doubt. And they had served her well so far.

Feeling a little more hopeful, she clambered to her feet and began her hunt. She'd spent months in this room, knew every inch, every book, and by the time Draco appeared a few minutes later, she was up a ladder, thumbing through a small anthology on theories of time.

"Found something else?" he asked, making her start and snap the book shut.

He was leant against the doorframe, hair damp as before, amusement on his face. She felt an unexpected tug in her chest at the sight of him.

"No," she said, because it seemed he was expecting an answer. "No. This is just—just something I'm interested in. Just… just casually."

"Yeah?" He clearly didn't believe her for a second. "You never do anything casually."

"I do," she insisted, stepping down the ladder. "I can be… casual."

"Not the morning after our greatest discovery in months." He strode across the room and, before she could stop him, plucked the book from her hands. "'Unravelling the mysteries of _time_ '?" he read off the cover. "What's that got to do with Horcruxes?"

"Nothing," she said, snatching for it but missing as he stepped backwards. "Give it back!"

Holding it out of her reach, he flipped it open to the page she'd been reading—clearly evident by her stupid self having folded down the corner the moment she found the relevant chapter.

"Temporal loop theory?" He glanced at her, incredulous. "You're not the sort to believe this bunk."

"I don't," she said. "Or, at least, I didn't." She held out her hand. "Please give it back."

"Then why are you reading it?"

"I just—" She made another unsuccessful grab for it "—I thought there might be something I could use. Malfoy!" she said crossly when he still refused to hand it over. For someone whose life she was working to save, he really did get on her wick. "Give it to me now."

He did so, thankfully, although not without slanting her a look of deep suspicion.

"This is the blathering of a half-witted pseudo scholar. You don't read blathering." He raised his eyebrows. "What are you really up to, Granger?"

She thought about telling him. She really did. But then she remembered the blinding flash of green light, the thud of his body hitting the floor, and her heart clenched. She wasn't even sure she believed it herself yet, and she was the one living it. How on earth would _he_?

Her expression must have worried him, because he sobered, almost instantly.

"You're not—" He hesitated, eyes searching her face "—you're not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you? Our best chance of defeating You-Know-Who is finding and destroying the Horcruxes. I know we've considered it once or twice, but time… time is not something we should be messing with."

Didn't she know it? She smiled—an ironic, humourless smile—and held the book against her chest.

"Then let's hope it doesn't start messing with me," she said. Her reply obviously did nothing to assure him because his mouth tugged downwards, confusion and concern flooding his eyes, and she couldn't stand it—couldn't stand that she was alone in this; couldn't stand that unless she did something, _anything_ , he was going to die today—so she turned away.

"Aren't you coming to breakfast?" she asked flatly as she headed for the doorway. "I heard Remus is making pancakes."

 

* * *

 

 Frustratingly, Draco had been right about the blathering. The few books Hermione had collected on the subject weren't particularly helpful. In fact, the only author who'd concluded the sort of situation Hermione was in was theoretically _possible_ was a thoroughly discredited researcher from the late eighties.

She needed more information, and there was, she realised, only one place to get it.

"Arthur is back with an address for Ndidi Mbachu," Malfoy said, appearing in the doorway to find her cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by books.

The position was not unusual for her, of course, although from the way he side-eyed the volumes strewn about her, she was fairly sure he could guess their contents.

"A bit of casual reading, hm?" he asked with a teasing half-smile.

How many times had she seen that particular look? Usually it drove her mad, but _now_ … She managed a small rueful smile of her own and got to her feet.

"Got to find some way to pass the time," she said lightly. "Shall we go?"

She let Remus lead the way through the rain-soaked London streets to the store, even though she'd walked it twice now and knew the route quite well. She didn't hesitate on the doorstep this time. No, she needed as much time as possible with Ndidi before the Death Eaters turned up.

As before, when they'd reached her workshop, the witch sent light fluttering down the aisles like a flock of crystal butterflies. As they landed, they revealed row after row of all sorts of treasure: crystal balls, clocks, complicated contraptions with cogs and levers.

Something here was the culprit behind this bizarre series of events, Hermione knew. And there was only one person who could tell her what.

"Now," Ndidi said, letting her wand fall to her side, "why don't you tell me why you're here?"

As before, all eyes landed on her. She knew her line, knew how to trigger the exact same conversation they'd had twice before. But this time, she had a different plan.

The others would think she was barmy—she knew it for sure. Still, she reassured herself, when the day started again, when she woke again on the hard library floor, none of them would remember a thing.

She took a deep breath.

"I think I'm stuck in a time loop, and I think something here caused it."

Silence. She hadn't intended to, but as she spoke, her eyes had landed on Draco. He'd always had a fairly good poker face, but this time she'd managed to surprise him. She watched the bewilderment play out quite plainly on his face, but then he joined the dots between her odd behaviour this morning and this latest revelation—she saw the moment it all fitted together—and his forehead furrowed.

She felt a brief twinge of guilt that she'd not filled him in earlier, that she'd not enlisted his help. But she had known from the start that he wouldn't believe her.

He was too logical. He was too much like _her_.

"I—I…" Ndidi's eyes slid between them. "I'm sorry?"

Hermione's stomach sank. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. A flicker of recognition, surely?

"I'm trapped in some sort of time loop," she repeated, determined for answers. "This is the third time I've been here, and both times before it's ended the same way."

"Hermione…" Of the three men, Remus had recovered first, and he was eyeing her with enormous concern. She interjected quickly.

"I know you think I'm crazy, and believe me, I thought so too. But I've lived this day before— _twice_ —and the same thing happens every time." She turned back to Ndidi, anguish seeping into her voice. "You have to believe me. I don't know how but the Death Eaters know we're here. They attack us and your collection—" She gestured to the maze of shelves "—it all gets destroyed. And then when we try and Apparate away, I land where I woke up this morning and the whole day begins again.

"Please," she tried again, when the older woman did nothing but stare, her wizened face a picture of bafflement. "There is something here, I know it. Something here triggered this."

"Hermione," Remus tried again. He had edged a little closer and reached carefully for her arm like she was a danger to them. And maybe she was. She'd pulled out her wand without even realising it, and there was something rising in her, a sort of desperation that gripped her lungs and shallowed her breath.

Because now it was here, she realised she had staked everything on this moment—she had been _depending_ on it—and if Ndidi didn't believe her, then Merlin help her, who would?

"You know what I'm talking about," she said desperately. "I know you do."

The woman dropped her gaze, and with it, fell Hermione's every hope. But then…

"It's real," she murmured. Her amber eyes lifted, face suddenly bright. "Enekpe's clock. It is _real_." The woman stiffened suddenly and glanced toward the staircase, and Hermione knew her time was up.

"Come and find me," she said urgently, lifting her wand. "When you wake up, don't wait. Come and find me, and I will tell you all that I know."

And then with a shout from Remus, a flash of green light and a thud as Hermione herself hit the ground, Ndidi Mbachu lay dead on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do leave me a comment to let me know what you thought.


	5. Chapter 5

It was with an odd sense of relief and vindication that Hermione stepped alone into Ndidi's store. She wasn't going mad, and neither was she in this alone anymore. Ndidi knew what was happening. Ndidi could _help_.

And she might even be able to save the woman's life in the process.

"Hello?" she called, pulling the door closed behind her.

At breakfast this morning, she'd complained of a bad headache and retired to her room. Of course, it had been just a cover and she'd Apparated away soon after, startling a grubby-looking drunk sleeping on the pavement as she slipped out of the phone booth and hopped over him. Fortunately, she'd encountered no one else; at this early hour, the streets were mostly empty, the only sound the lash of rain on her hood as she hurried the short distance to Ndidi's store.

Inside, she lit her wand, holding it up to reveal the jumble of artefacts and antiques that, even now, the fourth time she'd entered this room, still filled her with a curious feeling of unease.

Godric knew the power between these four walls if just _one_ of these objects could transcend the laws of magic and time.

She should have expected it—she had, after all, experienced the exact same welcome three times before—but her heart nearly stopped when a dazzling purple explosion sent her diving behind a sturdy wooden cabinet.

That was at least until the cabinet got up and, squealing in alarm, scurried off into the darkness.

"Ndidi!" she yelled, crawling behind a wardrobe that was groaning quite alarmingly but appeared not to be running away. "Ndidi, my name is Hermione Granger. I'm a friend of Arthur Weasley's!"

She peeked out but jerked back when another curse nearly singed off the ends of her hair. Merlin, how could she explain the situation without getting herself blasted to bits before she finished?

"There's—there's something in your shop that keeps sending me back in time!" Her mind raced frantically. Ndidi had said something in her last loop… a name… something _clock_ … "Enekpe's clock," she shouted in a flash of inspiration. "Enekpe's clock!"

The blasts stopped, and Hermione dropped her head back against the wood panelling in relief.

But then she realised it had gone ominously quiet. She peered around the side of the wardrobe and found herself face to face with the sharp end of Ndidi's wand.

"How did you hear about Enekpe's clock?" she demanded. Hermione held up her hands, fingers splayed.

"You told me," she said carefully. "Last time I was here. You told me that I should find you when my day started again."

A beat, long and tense as the older woman stared her down, but then she lowered her wand and Hermione heaved a sigh of relief.

The witch had believed her. The first hurdle was behind her.

Whether Ndidi would be able to help as much as Hermione hoped, however, was still to be determined. The woman looked a little dazed.

"Dear lord," she said, shaking her head. "Dear lord, it's real."

It was what she'd said before. Thoroughly intrigued, Hermione was just about to ask her _what_ was real, when Ndidi stilled and looked guardedly about.

"Come," she said, reaching out a hand to help the younger witch to her feet. "We cannot talk out here."

 

* * *

 

"And then when we Apparate away, I wake up where I woke up this morning," Hermione said. "And the whole day starts again."

She had given Ndidi an abridged account of the attack on the store on their way down the spiral staircase: the assault from the steps, the explosion, _Draco_ … Everything except the woman's own fate. She had tried, wanting to warn her, but the words had stuck in her throat.

"I can think of only one explanation," Ndidi said, lighting her wand and gesturing for Hermione to follow. "Come. It is this way."

They didn't have to walk far. Even by the dim light of Ndidi's wand, Hermione knew exactly where they were. It was, she was sure, the very spot Lucius Malfoy had three times murdered his son.

A chill whispered across her skin, and she tugged her coat more tightly around herself.

Ndidi's keen brown eyes followed the movement.

"Are you cold?"

"No, I just—" She swallowed. "This is where…"

"Ah." Comprehension dawned on the older woman's face. "Your friend."

"Yes. But that's a good thing, right? That means we know what caused it."

"Indeed." Ndidi held up her wand, illuminating the shelf before them. "And it was this," she said, her voice soft, almost reverent. "Enekpe's clock."

It didn't particularly look like a clock. A woman, carved from dark wood, stood above a half-filled water pool. Her arms were stretched high, a clay pot studded with tiles of turquoise and gold balanced on her head. From the pot flowed a continuous stream of water, not gushing straight down as one might expect, but twisting around the woman in a shimmering spiral. At her feet sat several children, frozen in play, and the water swirled around them too, spilling finally into the pool below.

"My great-great-grandmother brought it with her from Nigeria many centuries ago," Ndidi said. She smiled suddenly, evidently sensing Hermione's dubiousness. "It is not a clock as you or I would imagine. It is a water clock—an ancient invention. The level of water in the pool tells you the time."

"It's beautiful," Hermione said, leaning in for a closer look. Ndidi's fingers brushed her arm in warning.

"Careful," she said. "Touch the water and you'll disrupt its timekeeping."

"Or Time itself?" Hermione asked, a touch wryly, as she straightened. Ndidi chuckled.

"Perhaps." She peered at Hermione curiously. "How much do you know about Nigerian folklore?"

"Not a lot," Hermione admitted. She looked at the wooden figure, graceful and tall, the water twining all about her. "Is this Enekpe?"

"Yes," Ndidi replied. "She is the goddess of family and guardian of destiny. But her story… her story is not a happy one."

Hermione could tell that from the woman's carefully sculpted face. Her eyes were closed, her expression almost melancholy. Yet she seemed at peace, whatever it was fate had sent her way.

"What happened?" she asked. Ndidi ran her finger along the edge of the pool.

"It is said that long ago, her people were threatened with destruction," she said softly "She proposed a deal with the other gods. Her life in exchange for the protection of her people."

"Did they accept?"

Ndidi nodded slowly, her colourful earrings flashing in the light.

"They did. She died but her people were saved." She gestured to the little children sat at the woman's feet. "She sacrificed herself to protect their future."

Hermione stared silently at the goddess poised elegantly on the clock. She was beautiful, certainly, but there was a strength to her beauty; she could see it in the way her rounded hip jutted to the side, the way her long, lean arms extended high above her head.

Her story, sad though it was, was a familiar one so deep into this war. Hermione had seen many die over the years in the place of people they cared for.

Her mind flashed, unbidden, to Draco. He had pushed her aside and taken a curse meant for her. He had sacrificed himself without a moment's hesitation.

And he'd done it for _her_.

She wondered what it meant. If it meant anything at all.

"It may look like nothing more than a pretty ornament," Ndidi said, reaching for Hermione's hand, "but there is powerful magic in this clock. If it was destroyed and all its power released, I believe it would be enough to trap you in this loop."

That's what she was, wasn't it? _Trapped_.

"But why me?" she asked, a little helplessly. "Why not Malfoy? Why not his father, for heaven's sake? He's the one who destroyed it."

"Perhaps _you_ are the only one who can save it," Ndidi said thoughtfully.

"So all of this, bending the laws of time, trapping me in this loop with no help, no clue as to what to do to get out of it… it's all just the clock's way of protecting itself?" Hermione gave said clock a malevolent look.

"Perhaps it is protecting you," Ndidi offered. "Or your friend. Or even me." When Hermione blinked at her, she smiled a little mischievously. "Don't think I didn't notice you glossing over _my_ fate."

Hermione felt her shoulders slump. She should have known the woman's bright-eyed gaze wouldn't miss a thing.

"It happens straight away," she said. "I'm sorry. I've never been quick enough."

To her surprise, Ndidi let out an amused huff.

"Do not apologise. I am an old witch. I can take care of myself. It is you, young Mister Malfoy and the clock we need to get safely away from here. Along with the rest of my books, of course."

It sounded simple enough, but Hermione remembered the chaos of the attack, how quickly everything seemed to deteriorate, how powerless she'd felt as Draco hit the ground, and desperation pricked the edges of her mind.

"I'm not sure I can do it alone," she said, and Ndidi's eyes softened.

"You won't have to," she declared. "You have me, and together, we will come up with a plan to save us all."

 

* * *

 

"It's no use," Hermione said many loops later. "Malfoy is dead set on saving my life."

She was sat on a stool in Ndidi's workshop, chomping on something the older witch had called 'puff puff'—a name that turned out to be more than valid, since the delicious little balls of dough were sugary, deep-fried and as fluffy as the clouds.

"Quite literally," she added darkly as she licked the sugar off her fingers.

She had, she felt, tried everything to affect the outcome of this disaster of a day.

She'd started with an attempt to keep the men away from the store altogether, but that had been underestimating Draco's stubbornness. Another time, she'd offered to stay up in the shop, hoping to cut off the Death Eaters before they reached the staircase, but Draco had insisted on staying with her. She and Ndidi had even packed up her books and readied the clock to Apparate away the moment the others arrived, but the few minutes it took to persuade them to do so were just a few too many.

It happened differently every time, but happen it did. The clock was destroyed, Draco did something stupidly heroic—jump in front of her, shove her aside, once he even threw himself on top of her (Remus had dragged her out from underneath him, and she'd dry-heaved between sobs in the bathroom for an hour in her next loop)—and her day began again.

Five times. Ten times. Fifteen. _Twenty_.

It was frustrating and gut-wrenching and exhausting beyond measure, and Hermione wasn't sure how much longer she could keep it up.

"Perhaps you should be flattered," Ndidi said absently, quill scratching as she annotated the book she was reading. "It's not every day a Slytherin sacrifices himself for someone else. Or maybe it is," she added with a smile, glancing up over the colourful feather, "as the case may be."

It was true, Hermione supposed—and something that in equal parts melted and broke her heart every time she thought about it.

Because although she had come to hate that sickening jolt as the clock dragged her back in time and she opened her eyes on the library floor, it had become her worst fear that it _wouldn't_ happen. That Malfoy would die and for some reason, the clock wouldn't be destroyed, and she wouldn't get another chance to save him.

She wanted to save him. She needed to save him. And it wasn't simply Gryffindor chivalry. Sequestered away in that windy house by the sea, they had spent almost every day for the past three months together. Other Order members came and went, but he had been her constant; she hadn't realised how much so until he suddenly wasn't and she discovered she missed him.

Merlin, she missed _Malfoy_. Harry and Ron would die laughing if they knew.

"I'm not sure how much longer I can do this," she said, covering her face with her hands. She thought about the flash of green light, the crack of the curse whipping into his chest, the thump as his body and her heart hit the floor. "I'm not sure I can watch him die again."

"It is difficult," Ndidi agreed mildly, "to watch the ones we love suffer for us."

Hermione parted her fingers to frown at her. They'd had this conversation before, although of course Ndidi didn't know that.

Though by the sly look in those warm brown eyes, Hermione was sure the witch suspected as much.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," she said, knowing after playing it through several times she could never find one to satisfy the older woman's romantic envisionings, and closed her fingers again.

She just wanted this to be over. She just wanted this bloody day to run its bloody course—preferably _without_ Malfoy getting himself killed along the way—so the two of them could go back to saving the world and she didn't have to spend every waking moment bloody moping over him.

Because that was what she was doing, wasn't it? _Moping_. It was bloody pathetic, that's what it was.

She just wished she could tell him about all of this. She just wished he'd believe her if she did.

"Why don't you?" Ndidi asked softly, and she realised she'd lamented that last bit aloud. She dropped her hands.

"He won't believe me."

"Have you tried?"

"Not really." She rested her chin on her palm. "But he caught me reading up on the theory behind it. He thinks it's nonsense. He told me so himself."

Ndidi eyed her thoughtfully.

"So he doesn't trust the theory," she said. "He trusts you though, does he not?"

Did he? Without Hermione consciously calling up the memory, her mind flashed back to that first morning, before all of this began, to the library, where she and Draco had sat together on that sun-soaked seat by the window.

_She's brilliant_ , he had said matter-of-factly, _and so are you._

"He trusts me," she admitted with a sigh.

Ndidi smiled, satisfied, and picked up her quill again.

"There you go," she said. "Just tell him the truth."

Would it be enough? For all the propaganda he'd blindly absorbed as a child, Draco had grown into a fairly rational and scientifically-minded individual. Over the months they had spent together, she had earnt his trust, but his complete rejection of his former world-view, of his family, his _father_ , made her wonder how far he was willing to put his faith in _anyone_.

Even her.

"He gave his life for you," Ndidi advised, seeing the hesitation on her face. "The least you can do is give him a chance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're interested, the goddess Enekpe is part of real Nigerian mythology. There's not a lot of information out there about her, but her story is essentially what is told here. I wish I knew more, so if anyone does, please do let me know!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it's about time we brought Draco on board, isn't it? Thanks for making it this far. I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Evidence. That was what Hermione needed, and by the time she met Draco in the hallway, she'd figured out what she had to do.

"Granger," he said, stopping as she stepped in front of him. His gaze swept down her body then up and over her head at the books and papers strewn across the library floor, and his eyes narrowed. "Did you come back down here last night?"

"Yes," she said, "but that's not important. I need you to listen to me. No," she said when he opened his mouth, clearly to object. "It's not important."

He must have picked up on the urgency in her tone, because he subsided with nothing more than a slight arch of his brow. A slight arch that nevertheless quite clearly told her he was ready and waiting but she'd better get on with it because he wouldn't wait forever.

She resisted the very familiar urge to throttle him and took a step closer.

"Listen," she said briskly. "In a minute, I'm going to go upstairs to get dressed and you're going to go to breakfast. When you walk in, Remus will be reading the paper, Tonks's hair will be purple, and Kingsley will be sat at the head of the table, by the doors, which will be open. A few minutes later, Hestia will push Sturgis into the doorframe, which he'll complain about, loudly. After that, Teddy will pry the lid off his drink and spill his juice everywhere.

"Orange juice," she added, very aware he was staring at her like she'd lost her mind. "It will be orange juice. Once he's been cleaned up, Arthur will walk in and ask what he has missed. Tell him the name Ndidi Mbachu. He'll remember her from the Ministry many years ago. She worked in the Death Chamber but was fired for her research into the Dark Arts. He and Remus will decide to go and track down her address."

She realised she'd been talking rapidly—too rapidly, so desperate was she to make this work—and took a brief, calming breath.

"The reason I know all of this," she said quietly, "is because I've been stuck in a time loop for Godric knows how long, and I have lived this day over and over and over and _over_ , and I'm getting pretty keen for it to end."

Merlin, _that_ was an understatement. She drew a shaky breath.

"Once everything I told you would happen happens," she said, "come and find me. I'll be outside."

Without thinking, she reached for his arm. His head jerked and he stared silently down at where her fingers had latched on to the soft green fabric of his jumper.

"I know it's a lot to take in," she said softly, "and I'm sorry to tell you this way, but if you don't believe me, then you"—she paused, then swallowed—"then you're going to die today, and I can't let that happen again."

She let go of him and stepped backwards, a lump in her throat. His eyes on hers demanded an explanation, but his mouth stayed firmly closed.

"Come and find me," she said. "Just come and find me."

 

* * *

 

He did come to find her, of course. Not twenty minutes later as she stood, alone on the sand dunes, staring out at the sea.

"So," he said mildly, stopping beside her. "A time loop, huh?"

She peeked at him to check he wasn't simply teasing her, but his expression was serious, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Yeah," she said. He pursed his lips.

"And I die?"

She'd meant to soften the blow, but she supposed the Kneazle was out of the bag now. She nodded.

"Every time."

He glanced at her sharply.

"And how many times is that?"

She wanted to say she'd lost count, but she hadn't. Of course she hadn't.

"This will be the twenty-fourth," she said with a sigh.

"Twenty-fourth?" He raked a hand through his hair and stared down at her in shock. "Bloody hell, Granger. Aren't you going mad?"

She gave him a sideways look.

"Do you think I am?"

He wasn't stupid. He knew what she was really asking.

"You predicted my entire breakfast," he said, giving her a glance that was half helpless, half amused. "All of it. Every single minute. And you and I both know you're no Seer."

"I'm not," she agreed.

"So, time loop," he said with a shrug. "I've heard weirder."

"You have not!" she said, oddly offended, and he laughed.

"Alright, so maybe I haven't," he admitted. "Whatever is going on here is pretty strange. But I believe you," he added, suddenly sober, and relief surged through her. "That's what you wanted to know, right?"

She smiled, eyes flickering up to meet his.

"Right."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, squinting against the salty sea breeze that lashed his hair about his eyes and whispered through the long, dry grass around them.

"How does it happen?" he asked. "My… my death."

When she hesitated, he tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. "Granger?"

"We go and find Ndidi," she said with a sigh. "Somehow, the Death Eaters discover we're there. They attack, and you…" She stopped, the words catching in her throat. "Your, um…"

Understanding tightened in his mouth.

"It's my father," he said flatly, "isn't it?"

Asked outright like that, Hermione realised she couldn't lie— _wouldn't_ lie. Not about this. And better he know now, ahead of time. Better he be prepared.

As prepared as anyone could be facing an Unforgivable from their own father.

"Yes," she said with difficulty. "I'm sorry."

His eyes turned to flint.

"I knew it. Killing Curse?"

"Meant for me actually. You always dive in front," she said, hoping the knowledge that his father hadn't intended to kill _him_ , at least not at that precise moment, might provide some comfort. If the way his lip curled was any indication, however, it probably didn't.

"No doubt he just wanted me to watch you die first." He stared bitterly at the waves. "He always was a vindictive son of a bitch."

There was nothing he'd said that Hermione could disagree with, not with any sort of conviction. She wanted to reach out to him, to slip her hand in his and let him know she was here, that he wasn't alone. But she knew she couldn't. Their relationship just wasn't like that, no matter how many times he'd sacrificed himself to save her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have told you."

"It's fine," he said, although the stiffness in his shoulders said otherwise. "The Death Eaters nearly killed him when I defected. Mother too. He's bound to want some form of retribution."

Hermione studied him silently. They'd not spoken much about his time before the Order, but he had told her a little—late at night, surrounded by books and parchment, and lulled into honesty by mugs of scorching tea and the flicker of fire beside them.

She knew a desperate Lucius Malfoy had offered everything he had to claw himself back into Voldemort's inner circle: his house, his wealth, his _son_. She knew Draco had made contact with Kingsley through his godfather, Snape—once their Potions Master, then a high-ranking Death Eater—before the older man had been discovered as a double agent and brutally murdered. She knew he'd pleaded, frantically, with his mother to leave with him.

She knew from the way he blanched if someone mentioned her that she hadn't.

He didn't speak of it, but she knew it ate at him. All of it. Snape. His father. His _mother_. She saw it in the way he pushed himself. The way he'd put up with the distrust and sidelong glances. The way he'd grit his teeth and bite back his response until finally, _finally_ , people had begun to put their faith in him.

She wondered whether that was why he was always so quick to leap in front of her.

Those grey eyes flickered suddenly towards her, nearly translucent in the sunlight.

"You're looking at me like I'm some poor, kicked puppy," he said drily, and she smiled, a little self-consciously.

"Sorry."

"It's okay." He slanted her a teasing look. "I am, after all, the man that saved your life—twenty times, was it?"

Hermione fought a flush. It had been too much to hope he'd let that one slip by.

"Yes," she said grudgingly.

He gave her a look that was, in her humble opinion, far too smug for a man who had done nothing this morning but eat pancakes.

"Some might call me a hero."

"Some might," she agreed noncommittally.

"Not you?" He was teasing, she knew. He'd stepped a little closer, his long, lean body curving towards her.

Part of her had missed this; part of her just wanted to smack him.

"I have to say," he added when she fixed him a flat look, "I feel like I'm not getting the appropriate level of adulation a hero of my stature so rightly deserves."

Adulation? He wanted _adulation_? She'd lived the same morning more than twenty times trying to save his miserable life. Evidently, her expression revealed exactly what she was thinking, because his mouth twitched in amusement.

"That's not really the look of adoration I was hoping for," he said. "As a hero. A noble, selfless hero. A gallant, magnanimous…"

"Don't push it," she warned before he could come up with any more synonyms. "I'm rather hoping today's the day you won't have to be quite so magnanimous."

He flashed her a smile, the wind fluttering his hair about his forehead.

"Reckon I have to agree with you there," he said. "As much as I enjoy being the hero of the hour, I'd rather not be a dead one. I'll leave that sort of reckless self-sacrifice to you Gryffindors."

She huffed a little, because of course he had to get in a dig about her House somewhere, and prepared to shoot back some snarky comment about Slytherin self-preservation. But then her gaze met his, and he was looking at her with such sudden intensity that every word in her very vast vocabulary vanished into the ether.

"Not," he began in a low, gravelly voice, "that I wouldn't do it again. Because I would. Without even a moment's hesitation."

Hermione's throat tightened, and she wasn't sure whether it was because of his words or the look on his face.

"You shouldn't," she said. When his jaw set, she reached impulsively for his hand. "Malfoy, promise me you won't."

His fingers were warm, _real_ , beneath hers, and Hermione was struck with a sudden wave of fear, so strong her knees nearly buckled with the force of it.

What if she failed even _with_ him on her side? What would she do then?

"Malfoy," she said a little desperately. "Promise me. _Please_. I'm not worth it."

He laced his fingers in hers, and her heart deflated as he shook his head.

"You," he said matter-of-factly, "are worth a thousand deaths. And nothing you can say will stop me jumping between you and my father if I have to. Got it?"

Stunned into silence, Hermione simply stared. It sounded… It sounded like he might…

"Granger?" he prompted, and she forced herself to focus. There was, she realised, no point arguing with him over this. He was much better at it than Harry or Ron had ever been, and twice as stubborn.

Besides, he'd said he'd only sacrifice himself if he had to. She just had to make sure he didn't.

"Got it," she echoed.

"Good," he said softly, holding her gaze. Then as quickly as she'd caught it the first time, as suddenly as he'd gone from light and teasing to so intense it had taken her breath away, he dropped her hand and stepped away.

"I presume," he said as she blinked, bereft, "that you have a plan?"


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione did have a plan, and by the time Arthur and Remus returned an hour later with the witch's address, she and Draco were ready to enact it. She had realised from experiences prior that no matter what time they arrived at the store, the Death Eaters turned up no more than ten minutes later.

_Ten minutes._ They had ten minutes to warn Ndidi, retrieve the clock and get all five of them out of there.

On the doorstep, Hermione wavered, struck still with what suddenly seemed to be an overwhelming task. But then warm fingers brushed her wrist, and squeezed.

"Twenty-fourth time's the charm," Draco murmured in her ear, then winked over his shoulder as he followed the other men inside.

It did appear to be the charm, because they had Ndidi on side in minutes, much to Arthur and Remus's complete and utter bewilderment, and were down in the woman's underground workshop, helping her pack up her research on Horcruxes several minutes later.

"The clock," Hermione said, catching Malfoy's eye.

"The clock," he agreed and followed her swiftly through the shelves.

They were nearly there when a yell and the shatter of glass signalled they were almost out of time.

"Come on," Draco said, urging her on with a hand to her back. A glance behind as she ran confirmed the Death Eaters had arrived; she could see bright flashes of spells, red, blue and purple, above the shelves.

And then they stopped. Hermione could only presume it was because Ndidi and the others had heeded her advice and successfully Apparated away. The alternative didn't bear thinking about.

"Here!" She skidded to a halt beside the clock. "Here, help me shift it."

Malfoy put his wand beneath his teeth and, together, they hefted it up from the base. Merlin's beard, it was heavy—and bulky to boot. But if they were going to Side-Along the thing out of here, they needed a good grip.

"Watch it," Draco grunted as it slipped in her hands, sending Enekpe veering dangerously towards her chin. Fortunately, the water seemed to be charmed against such manhandling, and didn't slop over the edge of the pool.

"We need to go," she said breathlessly. It wouldn't be long before the Death Eaters spread out into the shelves to hunt them down.

"Got it?" he asked and, when she nodded, he braced himself more firmly against the clock and took out his wand.

Her stomach flipped as just a little way down the aisle, a hooded figure stepped from between the shelves.

_Lucius_.

"Now!" she cried. The shout drew Draco's father's attention—his head snapped towards them, wand raised—but it was too late; Malfoy had spirited them away.

She held onto the clock tightly as the wind roared around them and the ground vanished from beneath her feet.

After a few moments of wild whirling, they landed with a jolt back at the safe house—the hallway, to be exact. Her boots slipped a little, but she caught herself, grimacing as the weight of the clock wrenched her shoulders.

"Alright?" Draco asked, eyeing her with concern.

"Yeah." She exhaled slowly, relief filtering through her like rays of sunlight. "I'm alright."

"Let's get this down," he said, nodding towards the clock. "Here should be…"

He trailed off suddenly, eyes catching on something behind her.

"Kingsley?" he said faintly. Hermione turned, although the weight of the clock in her arms made it difficult for her to twist very far.

It was far enough.

Kingsley lay flat on his stomach in the open doorway, his cheek pressed to the rug. He was dead; there was no doubt about it. His eyes were open and clouded, staring blindly across the floor.

"Kingsley!" she cried.

"Quick. Get this on the ground," Malfoy said, and they lowered the clock hurriedly to the floor.

There were scorch marks on the door, she realised when she hurried over. And through it, in the front room, another body. George Weasley, slumped across an abandoned game of wizard's chess, eyes closed, skin white beneath his freckles.

She checked his pulse, but he was gone. Merlin, how could he be _gone_?

"Hermione." She looked up to see Draco framed in the doorway, his expression grim. "There are more out here."

He was right. Molly on the stairs, Hestia in the kitchen. They were dead. They were all dead.

"What the hell happened here?" she asked dazedly.

Her eyes snapped upwards, the haze evaporating instantly as someone walked over the floorboards above them. A door shut with a bang, then she heard voices: the low murmur of men, followed by the shriller tone of a woman—muffled through layers of wood and plaster, but entirely recognisable.

_Bellatrix_.

Voldemort's most loyal follower, the maddest witch Hermione had ever had the misfortune to encounter, and Draco's aunt.

"Shit," Draco said, face ashen.

The footsteps above them started suddenly towards the stairs.

"Come on," he said, catching her wrist and tugging her towards the cupboard beneath the staircase. Hermione resisted.

"Wait, the clock!"

She Levitated the clock into the cupboard, quickly and with shaking hands. No sooner had she set it down, Draco was shoving her in after it. With a glance upwards, he followed her, wrapping an arm around her waist and twisting so they could fit, her back to his chest, in the small space left between the coats and the clock.

Panic clogged in her throat as she realised the door hadn't properly caught and stood ajar. She reached for it, but froze as directly above them, the wooden staircase creaked.

A moment later, several sets of footsteps made their way down the stairs and into the hallway.

"Is that everyone?" One of the Death Eaters moved into sight.

Draco's palm flattened on her stomach as he pulled her tight against his body, away from the light cast by the open door.

"Yes," another replied. "Though you'd think a houseful of Order members would put up more of a fight."

"Clearly they were not expecting us," Bellatrix said with glee. She appeared in Hermione's eye line, a flutter of wild hair and black lace. "Our little mole has served us well."

_Mole_. Hermione inhaled sharply, then stiffened as Bellatrix cocked her head like a bird.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, glancing suspiciously about.

"Hear what?" a man asked rudely. Hermione presumed it was the woman's own husband, Rodolphus, since she'd never heard anyone else speak like that to Bellatrix and survive.

"I don't know, you blithering idiot," Bellatrix snapped. "Spread out, all of you. We can't leave any survivors."

"Granger," Draco breathed urgently in her ear. "I can't reach my wand."

"On it," she murmured back, and despite the cramped conditions, managed to twirl her wand above their heads. The Disillusionment Charm melted down her body, and she, Draco and the clock at her feet vanished into thin air.

And not a moment too soon either, because Bellatrix chose that moment to stomp across the hallway and throw open the door.

Hermione held utterly still as the witch's onyx eyes raked the empty closet. Above them, boots thudded and doors banged as the Death Eaters searched the upstairs rooms. The hunt sent dust sprinkling down over their heads, and Hermione's stomach lurched as it caught on the clock and revealed the faintest outline of a child by the pool.

_Don't look down_ , she chanted inwardly. _Don't look down._

At her back, Draco tensed as his aunt leaned slowly into the cupboard. Hermione held her breath; the witch was so close, she could smell the sickly sweet scent of her perfume.

The moment stretched long, silent, punctuated only by the frantic hummingbird-wing beat of Hermione's heart. Until finally, Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and lifted her wand.

" _Hominem rev_ …"

"Bella," Rodolphus said from behind. His silver mask was hanging about his neck, and his grizzled face was set in what Hermione supposed must be amusement.

"What?" she barked, jerking back.

"We've searched the whole house. There's no one left." He paused, lifting a thick brow. "And no one in that closet either, _darling_."

Bellatrix slammed the door shut, making Hermione flinch then sag back into Malfoy's chest. Thank Merlin for the mad witch's insolent husband.

Said mad witch whipped a petty hex in her beloved spouse's direction, then stomped across the hallway.

"Well what are we waiting for?!" she demanded. "I want to know whether Lucius managed to kill that cockroach of a son of his."

And then with the swish of cloaks and the _crack crack crack_ of Apparition, they were gone.

Silence. Except for the faraway crash of the waves. The rattle of the wind through the roof. The roar in Hermione's ears as reality settled all around her.

Behind her, Draco let out a shuddering breath and dropped his forehead to her shoulder. His arms were still around her, and he tightened his grip, gathering her close. She was grateful—she felt like her legs might buckle any moment.

Her friends. So much of the Order. They were all dead. How could they all be _dead_?

"This has never happened before," she whispered bewilderedly. Unless…

…Unless it _had_. How would she know? She'd never made it this far before.

But Bellatrix had mentioned a mole—someone who told her where the house was, how to get through the wards, how to take its occupants by surprise. That must have been how the Death Eaters knew Hermione and the others were at Ndidi's store, too. And why they chose today to strike, with four of the Order's strongest fighters separated from the rest.

At her words, Malfoy's hold on her had tightened, hands sliding up her body in comfort. But now he lifted his head.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of this closet."

He had to help her out, so wobbly was she on her feet. Keeping a firm grip on her, he murmured the counterspell to her Disillusionment Charm, then propped her up against the banister.

She just couldn't believe it. All that work. All those loops. And it was all for nothing.

"You have to destroy the clock," Draco said after a moment. Her head jerked up, and his expression was serious—more serious than she'd ever seen it.

"No," she said. "No. I won't."

"Granger," he began, face twisting, but she cut him off.

"No. You're alive. You're finally _alive_."

"But no one else is," he said softly, and tears pricked in her eyes.

He was right. She knew it, of course.

She looked up at him, a lump in her throat. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair disarrayed, but he was _alive_. She had finally done it. And now she had to start all over.

"I can't," she said, dropping her head. "I can't _do_ this again."

Draco made a rough sound in his throat and closed the gap between them. His hands found her face, and brought it up so she could see him, so he could cup it, so close his nose was almost brushing hers. Her breath hitched at his touch, his closeness—and quite without her meaning to, her hips swayed towards his, her fingers finding the hem of his jumper.

"You can," he told her fiercely. "I know you can."

She blinked rapidly, because she wouldn't cry. _She wouldn't cry._

"How?" she asked, and despite her best intentions, her voice cracked. "Someone _betrayed_ us. Someone told the Death Eaters we were here."

He exhaled softly.

"I know. I heard."

She closed her eyes as the tears threatened to fall. She had been so stupid. Fretting over the task of saving Draco, saving that blasted clock, when all along, Bellatrix had been murdering the rest of her friends right here.

"I don't know what to do," she admitted in a whisper.

His thumb skimmed her damp lashes, and the touch sent shivers across her skin.

"You will, though," he said. "You will. You always do."

He sounded so confident. So sure. She raised her gaze to his—a mistake certainly, because now she couldn't look away. He was looking at her with such warmth, such fondness, that it made her belly clench.

With the weight of his trust. With the fear of failure. And with something else entirely.

"If anyone can do this," he added softly, "it would be you." Her mouth crumpled as a fresh wave of emotion rippled over her, and the movement drew his gaze. "It would always be you," he murmured, voice thick, eyes on her lips.

Hermione couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. She wanted to close the space between them, to kiss away the breath that fluttered hot on her skin. But his voice, low and rich like liquid gold, had her utterly trapped—stock still, as if caught by spell.

But then his gaze rose to meet hers, and his mouth twitched into that half-smile she knew so well.

"What was I saying earlier?" he teased. "Twenty-fifth time's the charm?"

A rush of affection washed over her. Spell broken, she choked on a laugh and a sob, and dragged his mouth down to hers. He sucked in a sharp breath—surprise at her boldness, maybe—but he kissed her back, hard and fast and wanting, fingers pushing into his hair as he held her mouth firmly against his.

Half mad with the sudden rush of it, Hermione groped blindly for him. She wanted to touch, to feel, wanted him hard and hot and _real_ against her. He seemed to sense her need and let go of her head to gather her to him, holding her so tightly it felt like she might slip right through.

She would though in a way, wouldn't she? When she woke up on that library floor, this Draco—the one that held her, the one that kissed her—would be just a memory.

The thought sent a wave of despair surging through her. She inhaled, a rough ragged sound, all at once hands and tongues and desperate passion as she willed him to remember. She willed him to _know_.

He was breathing heavily when he finally broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers.

"I'm going to forget this ever happened," he rasped. "Aren't I?"

Her lashes fluttered, and a single tear escaped, trickled slowly down her cheek.

"Yes."

He drew back and cupped her cheek.

"This morning's me loved you too," he said in a raw voice, and her heart stuttered, almost stopped. "Before any of this even began, I loved you. Don't let me tell you otherwise."

She kissed him again then, fingers pushing up into his hair, eyes squeezed shut, as she tried, desperately, to pretend that this didn't have to end.

But of course it did. She pulled back, their lips separating audibly in the silent room. Draco let her go, reluctantly, her waist slipping through his fingers until she'd backed right up against the open cupboard door.

She looked at the clock, still sat so serenely beneath the stairs. Even after their narrow escape and hasty scrabble into the cupboard, the water was still flowing; silent, clear, sparkling like diamond as it weaved around the goddess's long lithe body and the children for whom she'd sacrificed her life.

_Surely this isn't what you intended_ , Hermione thought bitterly. Surely there was a way to save everybody. To get through this day without sacrificing _anyone_.

"Do it, Hermione," Draco said, resigned, and she realised that if there was a way, then it wasn't to be found today.

She lifted her wand and took aim. Right between Enekpe's eyes.

" _Reducto_ ," she said and, with a blinding flash of light and a violent rush of air, the clock ripped her mercilessly away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please do drop me a comment to let me know what you thought.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione didn't open her eyes this time. What was the point, after all? She knew what she would see.

She lay on the floor, listening to the distant sounds of her friends, all alive again, as they went about their early morning business—Molly clattering in the kitchen; a laugh, possibly George, in the dining room—and her heart _ached_.

It hurt even more when somewhere above, a door closed, and someone started down the stairs.

She knew who it was. She could picture him: hair damp and tousled as if she'd just been running her fingers through it; lean, hard chest clad in the exact same jumper—green, soft, a little bit fuzzy around the edges—that she'd bunched in her hands only moments ago.

She supposed it had been inevitable, really. Her and Malfoy. They rubbed each other up the wrong way half the time, but the months they'd spent together had revealed to her his intelligence, his dry humour, his resilience—all in all, a strength of character she'd have sworn, once upon a time, he could never have.

And really, how could she _not_ fall for the man who threw himself between her and a Killing Curse without even the barest moment's hesitation?

Tears burned beneath her eyelids. She'd been so convinced they'd done it, so convinced she'd saved him. And yet here she was, flat on the library floorboards, her day beginning just as it had done for the more than twenty times she'd lived it.

Heaven forbid Voldemort get hold of that damn clock. It was just as effective at sending a person insane as any other form of torture.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. It was ajar, and she heard it creak quietly as he pushed it open.

"Granger?" His voice was hushed.

She didn't move. Simply lay there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as steadily as she could manage to get it, here, on the brink of tears. She hoped he'd think she was still asleep and leave her alone—especially since whenever she met him at the door, he'd told her off for not getting enough of it.

No such luck. The boards shifted as he moved tentatively into the room. She heard him reach the sofa, then a faint rasp of fabric. There was a flutter of cool air, then something warm and soft settled over her.

A blanket. He'd covered her with a blanket.

Her throat grew tight, and the tears seemed on the very verge of leaking out from beneath her lashes. Afraid he'd see, afraid she'd have to explain, she feigned a sleepy murmur and rolled away from him, hiding her face.

There was a moment of complete stillness, as Draco evidently worried that he'd woken her. But then he released a breath and crouched beside her.

A warm hand traced the edge of her hairline then tucked a wayward curl behind her ear.

"Oh, Granger," he said softly. "What am I going to do with you?"

Her breath hitched as emotion, thick and intense, threatened to choke her. He was right there, he cared for her, maybe even—Merlin, did she dare hope it— _more_ than that, but never in all her twenty-four years had she ever felt so very alone.

He hovered over her for a moment more, but then he was gone. Footsteps leading him away. Door swinging gently shut behind him.

Lonely and tired and utterly heartbroken, Hermione buried her face in the blanket and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

By the time she walked into the dining room a little over ten minutes later, eyes red and a little swollen but thankfully tear-free, Hestia and Sturgis were at the table, Arthur Weasley was stacking his plate high and little Teddy Lupin was tucked up on his dad's lap.

She had missed her chance to get Draco on side again—at least early enough to make a difference.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it could never be early enough to save everyone.

"Merlin, what's wrong with _you_?" Tonks asked, taking in her mad hair and sour expression.

Hermione felt her mouth twitch with a sudden and unexpected flash of dark humour. What would they say if she told them the truth? Where would she even _begin_?

"Nothing," she said, slipping into the seat beside Draco. "Just didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh?" Remus glanced over the top of his newspaper. His eyes veered towards Draco, eyebrow cocked, and Hermione couldn't even find it in herself to be indignant.

"Granger decided to spend the night in the library," Malfoy said mildly as he spread butter on his toast.

"I did," Hermione said. Her gaze slid to Draco's. "Thanks for the blanket, whomever it was."

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug, but there was, she noted, a light flush staining his cheekbones. She remembered what he'd said after she'd kissed him.

_This morning's me loved you too._

The memory of the look in his liquid silver eyes when he'd said it sent another wave of emotion rushing through her. She concentrated on filling her plate to hide it, although she wasn't at all hungry. Fortunately, Angelina had started an in-depth conversation with Arthur and Remus, so Hermione could nibble listlessly on her hash browns without being the centre of attention.

As she ate, she let her gaze traverse the length of the table. She watched Hestia tuck Sturgis more snugly beneath a colourful woven blanket. She watched Molly sneak Teddy off his father's lap and fuss over him. She watched Kingsley throw back his head and laugh as George made some joke—no doubt highly offensive—about the older man's chess skills.

Someone here would betray them today. Perhaps someone already had. If asked, she'd have said she trusted every single person in this room with her life, but that didn't mean a thing if one of them was under the influence of an Imperius curse.

And it had to be an Imperius curse. It just _had_ to be. They'd fought side by side, they'd fought too long, _too hard_ , to throw it all away now. Not by choice. Not without a fight.

The problem was, with the exception of Hermione herself, no one at the breakfast table appeared to be waging any sort of internal battle. She assumed it wasn't Draco—he wouldn't have let her destroy the clock again if it was. And she figured, with the morning they were to have, it would be difficult for either Arthur or Remus to make any sort of contact with the Death Eaters. No, from the moment they returned with Ndidi's address, to the moment they were attacked deep below the store, they were never out of Hermione's sight long enough to pass the necessary information on.

But everyone else in the house knew where they had gone. Most of the others had gathered in the hallway to see them off. She could only presume one of them had been watching, _waiting_ for the right opportunity to hand them over to the Death Eaters. And what could be better than a relaxed weekday morning when four of the most competent fighters in the house were away on a mission?

Not that the others were, by any means, an easy target. The attack must have been fast and brutal to have taken them all so completely by surprise.

She would need a plan, she realised, as breakfast broke up and the others spread out about the house.

A plan to get Draco, Remus and Arthur on side; a plan to extract Ndidi, her research and the clock; a plan to find and expose the mole _before_ they could contact Bellatrix.

Simple, she thought ironically. Then, alone in the dining room, she dropped her head to the table with a groan.

 

* * *

 

Reluctantly, she let the day run its course. She'd have given anything— _anything_ —not to see Draco take another Killing Curse, but she needed time to gather her thoughts and form a strategy, and for that, the clock had to be destroyed. She couldn't risk it surviving and her day not restarting itself one final time.

By the time Draco fell in a blaze of green light and Remus dragged her back, glass skittering out from beneath her feet, she knew what she had to do.

_Just one more_ , she told herself as the clock wrenched her brutally away. Just one more and she'd be done.


	9. Chapter 9

"Granger!" Draco stopped, startled, as she leapt out of the library in front of him. "What are you…" He glanced over her head, through the door, and like so many times before, his eyes narrowed in realisation. "Did you come back down here last night?"

"Yes," she said quickly. "I did and I'm sorry. But I got some sleep." She pointed to her hair. "See? Bird's nest."

He blinked at her bemusedly, even more so when she took a step closer.

"I need you to listen to me," she began, and despite her best intentions to be brisk and composed about this, her voice caught on the final word. He heard it, clearly, because his gaze sharpened, instantly concerned.

"What's wrong?"

It was irrational, utterly unreasonable, but it hit her like a blow to the gut that he didn't know. That he couldn't remember what they'd been through.

"Just—" she inhaled a shaky breath "—just listen. Please." It took her a moment to steel herself, but then she explained as quickly and as succinctly as she could everything that would happen at breakfast. Like before, he seemed to think she might have gone utterly bonkers, but also like before, he didn't interrupt; simply listened as she had requested, his focus entirely on her.

"The reason I know this," she finished quietly, "is because I'm stuck in a time loop. I've lived this day before, many times, and it always ends the same way." It almost hurt to say it out loud but she had to. "The Death Eaters find us, and they kill everyone. Kingsley, Molly, George." She remembered their bodies slumped where they'd fallen, remembered Draco's defeated expression as he bid her destroy the clock—and her voice cracked. " _You_."

His gaze snapped to hers, something inscrutable in his eyes. She wanted to touch him; she reached for him, then stopped herself.

Because today would be her last chance. Her plan meant that, whatever happened, this would be her final loop, and she would have to live with the consequences.

_This morning's me loved you too_ , he had said. Call her cowardly, but she couldn't quite bring herself to put that to the test.

"I know it's a lot to take in," she said, "and I'm sorry to spring it on you like this. But I need you to believe me. And you will. I know you will, because you've believed me before."

He let out a harsh breath.

"Granger…"

"Please," she said, unable to help an edge of desperation from creeping into her tone. "Once everything I told you would happen happens, bring Remus and come and find me. I'll be in the study."

It struck her suddenly and with force that there was a traitor in the very next room—a spy, watching, _waiting_ for their moment to strike—and her chest spasmed.

"But no one else can know," she said urgently. "Please, Draco. No one else can know."

 

* * *

 

"So," a familiar voice said from behind her. "A time loop, huh?"

Relief surged through her, and she turned on a sharp inhale to find Draco and Remus framed in the doorway.

"That's what you said last time," she told him as he pulled the door shut behind them.

"Last time?" Remus shook his head and sagged, bewildered, into the stiff leather chair behind the desk. Hermione figured Malfoy had filled him in so far. Not, of course, that Draco himself knew much yet.

Still, she realised with a rush of warmth, it had been enough for him to believe her. His following her instructions to the letter were testament to that.

"Did Arthur leave?" she asked, glancing between the two men.

"Yes," Draco said. "Off to find the address of a certain Ndidi Mbachu." He gave her a significant look. "But I guess you knew that already."

"I know her address already too," she said recklessly. She crossed the room and sat herself opposite a rather baffled looking Remus. "I know a lot of things," she added, suddenly subdued.

"Hermione," Remus said after a pregnant pause. "What on earth is going on?"

"It's a long story," she said, slanting the two men a rueful smile, "and one you might find difficult to believe."

"You predicted my entire breakfast." Draco crossed his arms across his chest, propped his hip against the desk, and regarded her expectantly. "I think I can open my mind for just a few minutes."

"We will do our best," Remus agreed, leaning back in his chair, evidently settling in for the long haul.

Not that Hermione had all that long to convince them. Her plan required haste and brevity, so she filled them in as best she could—beginning with the events that led to the clock smashing the first time round, and concluding with her finally escaping with Draco and said clock still intact, only to discover Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters in this very house.

Her throat grew tight when she described it, remembering her despair, remembering how close the witch had come to discovering them, remembering that frantic, breathless kiss in the hallway…

"So I destroyed the clock," she said as briskly as she could, "and it sent me back. But now I have a plan, and we don't have very long to put it into action." Her gaze flickered briefly to Draco. "I need you to trust me."

Silence fell as the two men evidently contemplated all she'd said. Remus had been watching her intently as she spoke, but now his eyes were unfocused, his fingers steepled before him. His scarred face was unreadable, but already she knew she'd made the right choice telling him; she knew she could count on him to carefully weigh up the evidence and not immediately dismiss her out of hand.

Draco, too. She could feel his gaze fixed, unwavering, on her face. Heat crawled up her neck at such scrutiny—especially since the last time he had looked at her so intensely, they had ended up entwined and gasping in the hallway...

She pushed the memory aside. But then there was nothing to fill the silence except the very real possibility that Remus might not believe her. That—and the thought was physically painful— _Draco_ might not believe her.

Hit with a sudden wave of fear, Hermione wrapped her arms around her middle and closed her eyes.

She _needed_ them to believe her. Her plan wouldn't work without them.

Eventually, though, the leather creaked as Remus shifted in his chair, and then he cleared his throat.

"This plan of yours," he said, and her eyes snapped open, wide and hopeful. "Tell me what I need to do."

 

* * *

 

Remus left soon after. She'd had given him Ndidi's address, and his goal was to get the witch, her research and the clock to a safe location. Hermione had suggested Shell Cottage in the next but one county, where the older witch would be safe and well looked after, but it was entirely possible Ndidi had her own bunker elsewhere.

Hermione certainly wouldn't put it past her to have an entire network of secret hidey-holes, most likely filled with all sorts of powerful artefacts. She shivered. Who knew what terrible, wonderful magic that bloody woman was capable of?

"What," Remus had asked as he shrugged on is coat, "do I tell her when she starts shooting spells at me?"

"The truth," Hermione said frankly. "Her blasted clock has caused a time loop and if she wants to live, then she needs to go with you. And whatever you do," she'd added as he pulled out his wand and prepared to Apparate, "don't drop the clock!"

With a wink and a smile, the older wizard vanished, and she and Draco were left alone.

She didn't know why but the air felt suddenly loaded, thick with tension. She knew she'd been quite brusque with him so far—mostly out of embarrassment, like facing a lover the morning after, which was of course patently ridiculous, since he remembered nothing of their loops before.

But she knew he'd noticed it.

He wasn't stupid. He'd work out why sooner or later.

He'd been standing just in front of the desk, but now he leant back against it, wood creaking as he folded his arms across his chest and stretched out his legs.

He was all long, lean lines, she thought absently. Of course, that reminded her that it hadn't been all that long ago that those long, lean lines had been pressed up against _her_ , and the memory sent heat scorching through her veins.

She turned abruptly away, crossing the room to stop at the window. There wasn't much to see. Just slopes of sand and long, dry grass fluttering in the breeze. But the view was familiar. Calming.

This house had been their haven for so long. Too long perhaps. Maybe that had been their mistake. It had just been so good to be together again—to enjoy, for once, the carefree little moments that had been all too rare in the years since the Ministry fell and the Order had been forced underground.

She let out a soft huff of wry amusement. For a long time, she'd have probably given anything to live her time here again. To be surrounded by the people she loved, day after day. To forget, even just for a moment, that they were fighting a war.

Not now though. Now she wanted to wake up anywhere but the floor of that damn library. She could open her eyes in Voldemort's own _bedchambers_ , Nagini coiled tightly around her, and she'd probably be relieved.

Whatever happened today, though, Hermione knew they would all have to leave the house. They would scatter to the web of cottages and caves and secret hollows the Order had established across the country, and their brief respite from the war, their little moment of peace… it would all be over.

She wondered where Draco would go. Whether he would stay with her and her books, and finish what they had started.

Her heart gave a silly little jump. They had started more than research here, and she was pretty sure both of them knew it.

"So," Draco said, making her start a little and jerk round from the glass. "What do we do now?"

He was still leant on the edge of the desk, legs crossed casually at the ankles. But there was tension in his shoulders, in the hard set of his jaw.

"We wait." She gave him an encouraging half smile and lowered herself into the squashy armchair by the window. "We can't do anything now until Arthur and Remus get back."

"And then we smoke out the mole." He pressed his lips together. "Who do you think it is?"

The faces of their friends flashed before her eyes. Kingsley, Sturgis, Tonks, Angelina, _George_. She'd seen their bodies, but that didn't mean a thing. Not when Bellatrix was around.

"I don't know," she said eventually. "I can't imagine anyone here choosing to betray us."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You think they've been Imperiused?"

"It's the only explanation that makes sense to me. Whoever it was wasn't with the Death Eaters when they left, so I can only presume they'd outlived their usefulness and Bellatrix killed them for it."

She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. Bellatrix Lestrange was vindictive to her very bones; she had no doubt the witch would have lifted the curse on the unsuspecting traitor just a moment before she killed them, so he or she could appreciate the full extent of their betrayal.

"You never did say," Draco murmured in the resulting silence, "how many times you've lived this morning."

"Does it matter?" She stared bleakly at the carpet. "Too many."

He hesitated.

"And I die? Every time?"

She looked up to find his expression strained but almost resigned, as if he figured his death was somehow inevitable—and her heart twisted. She worried about that too. So much it made her almost sick with it.

"Yes," she said. "But only because you insist on throwing yourself in front of me all the time."

His shoulders loosened a little, as she'd hoped they would, and he tossed her a smile.

"The hero's burden," he said drily, then pulled a face. "Potter would be so proud."

"He would be grateful," she said, then added, just to be cruel, "Eternally and undyingly. Ron too, I imagine. "

His eyes widened at the thought of _gratitude_ from his former school rivals, and she smothered a laugh. It felt good to tease him. She'd missed it during the endless hours she'd been trying to save him.

But then he gave her a sideways glance, and the expression on his face was one that always signalled trouble.

"Does this mean you owe me about a hundred life debts?" he asked with a broad grin, and she stopped laughing. Abruptly.

Merlin, she'd not thought about that before. Not that she minded really. She was just a bit worried about what he might call them in on—something wicked certainly, going by the look in his eye.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm not sure if it works that way. But I am grateful," she added. "I haven't said it before—not, of course, that you'd remember if I had—but thank you."

The smile had slipped from his face, the teasing well and truly over, and she blushed. It felt a bit silly thanking him, as if she'd taken his sacrifice to mean more than it had.

"I know it was always more of a spur of the moment thing than anything else," she said quickly, "but it… it means a lot to me that you would do that." She swallowed, dropping her gaze. "That you would sacrifice your life like that. For me."

He didn't reply for a moment, and when she glanced up, concerned she had revealed too much, she saw a strange mingle of guilt and self-consciousness in his eyes.

"You shouldn't thank me," he said, pushing his hands in his pockets. "I've not done anything yet."

"You have. _Of course_ you have." Her heart felt suddenly too full to contain—he needed to know; he needed to understand what it had meant to her—and she stood and crossed the room towards him. "You don't remember it," she said earnestly, "but it happened."

He lifted his shoulder in an embarrassed half-shrug.

"Well, that's just it, isn't it? It wasn't really me. The Dracos that saved your life don't exist anymore."

"They do," she said immediately. "They're _you_."

Reluctance tugged at his mouth.

"Granger…"

"No, listen," she said. "There was a reason every loop ended the same way, and it was because it was you. Every time."

He blinked, and she moved towards him, almost instinctively and without realising it.

"It was _you_ who shoved me out of the way of that curse," she said, voice growing thicker with every word. "It was _you_ who told me to destroy the clock when you had survived but no one else had. It was _you_ , when we were in that hallway and I said I couldn't do it, and you made that stupid joke that wasn't even funny but somehow it was _everything_ I needed to hear. And it was _you_ when we k—"

She cut herself off, flushed and breathless. Somehow, without her noticing, he'd stood up from the desk and towered over her, his whole body tense, wound tight like a spring.

And his eyes—Merlin, his _eyes_ —were the most searing things she'd ever seen.

"When we what?" he asked hoarsely.

_Godric, he knew_ was her only thought. He knew what she'd been about to say. She took a step back, but he mirrored it.

"Granger," he said more softly. " _Hermione_." And her name on his lips sent tingles across her skin.

She stared up at him, heart thumping hard in her chest, heat prickling every inch of her body. Could she say it? Could she say it out loud?

Her eyes found his, and they were suddenly so sweet, so warm…

"It was you," she whispered.

"When?" he murmured. He was so close; she could feel the heat of his body ghosting her skin. She felt her fingers lift, quite of their own accord, to smooth across his stomach, hot and firm beneath the soft fabric of his jumper.

"It was you." She was trembling, voice soft, barely a breath. "When we kissed in the hallway. It was _you_."

He let out a soft groan and cupped her face.

Their lips had hardly just met—the briefest, most familiar moment of heat and sweetness, and the roar of exhilaration and want in her ears—when the door opened.

Hermione reacted instinctively, dragging backwards, breath leaving her lips with a gasp.

"Oh Merlin!" Molly stared in shock. "Merlin, I'm sorry. I didn't realise."

"It's fine." Hermione couldn't look at Draco. She swallowed, red-faced, the heat of his touch morphing into the heat of humiliation. "We were just—um. We were just…"

"Going over some research," he said helpfully. He smiled at Molly. "Would you like us to help you with the laundry?"

Molly blinked down at the basket in her hand.

"Oh. Oh yes. Yes, that's very sweet of you."

As he passed, Draco gave Hermione's hand a brief squeeze. She met his eyes, and realised the fire in them hadn't quite diminished.

_Later_ , they seemed to promise. _We'll finish this later_.

"You coming, Granger?" he said mildly as he disappeared through the doorway.

 

* * *

 

Molly liked to do the laundry entirely by hand—she said it was soothing, and she was right. Hermione felt her nerves settle like landing butterflies as she and Draco pinned out the bed sheets on the veranda. It was homely, comfortingly humdrum, although less so of course when Draco kept slanting her those heated little looks. Not to mention the crackle of electricity that shot between them whenever he handed her a peg and their fingers brushed.

Before she knew it, the grandfather clock in the library began tolling—she heard its gong through the wall—and she realised Arthur would be back any minute.

"Hermione?" Remus appeared suddenly through the sliding doors. He still had his coat on and his wand in his hand.

"Is she safe?" she asked immediately, and the older wizard nodded.

"As houses. The clock too."

So that was it, then. There was no going back.

"Hello?" Arthur called from inside. "Anyone around?"

Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance.

"I guess that means it's show time," he said.

It appeared everyone had been waiting for Arthur just as keenly as she had, because by the time Hermione stepped into the hallway, the whole house had assembled to see them off: Hestia and Molly from the kitchen, Angelina on the stairs with Teddy and Tonks, Kingsley and George still arguing over the outcome of their latest game of chess.

Only Sturgis was missing. Hermione remembered from earlier loops that he hadn't felt very well and had gone up to his bedroom for a rest.

She crossed him off her mental list of possible moles, then sighed.

One down, only six to go.

"I've got the address," Arthur said, and when he rattled it off, so did everyone else. So, Hermione realised, stomach clenching, did the traitor. "Who's coming with me?"

Fate had, of course, already decided. She stepped forward, Draco and Remus a mere footstep behind.

Soberly, Malfoy helped her into her coat, Molly made them promise to take care, and then Remus Apparated them away.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the lovely response so far! I hope you enjoy this next instalment.

They landed, not in a broken telephone box, but Hermione's small bedroom at the top of the house. It was a tight squeeze; Draco banged his head on the sloping ceiling and let out a hiss beneath his breath.

"Your bloody bedroom," he muttered, giving the offending beam a malevolent look—although it softened slightly when she slipped her fingers through his.

"What—" Arthur glanced confusedly about. "What are we doing _here_?"

"Change of plan," Remus murmured. His eyes had settled on her hand laced with Draco's, but although his eyebrow quirked a little, he didn't comment. "Someone's about to tell the Death Eaters where we are, and we need to stop them."

"How—How did…How…" Arthur's mouth opened and closed a few times, his eyes darting bewilderedly between the three of them. "But _who_?"

It was a good question, and one Hermione only wished she could answer.

"That's what we need to find out," she said.

Arthur's eyes went round but he appeared stunned into silence. And it was a good job too, because otherwise they wouldn't have heard the muffled creak from the bottom of the staircase.

All eyes—and wands—landed on the door.

Another creak, this time a little louder, and Hermione realised someone was making their way up the narrow, crooked stairway to the very bedroom they were in.

"Oh good lord!" Molly almost dropped the basket of clean laundry in shock. "You're supposed to be in London! What in the name of Merlin are doing _here_?"

On seeing his wife, Arthur had lowered his wand. But Hermione didn't, and neither did Remus or Draco.

"Granger?" Draco asked, a clear question in his voice.

A beat, as Hermione considered and Molly stared, alarmed, between them. The Weasley matriarch had been killed on the stairs, Hermione remembered, as if the older woman had simply been bustling about the house when the Death Eaters attacked. The thought of Molly—warm, kindly, motherly Molly—struck down so callously sent a sharp pang through her chest.

She dropped her wand.

"It's not Molly who betrayed us," she said. "She was on the stairs. They took her by surprise."

"Betrayed us?" Molly echoed faintly and with horror. "Who betrayed us?"

It was, of course, a shame to scare poor Mrs Weasley, especially since they'd already made her jump out of her skin twice this morning, but there was no time for explanations.

"Where is everyone else?" Hermione asked her urgently. "What are they doing?"

Molly blinked, evidently flustered and more than a little baffled by the whole situation, but answered the question nonetheless.

"Kingsley and George are in the front room, playing chess," she said. "Hestia is with them, I think. Although she might be making a cup of tea."

"And Dora?" Remus asked tensely. "Where is she?"

"Outside with Teddy and Angelina," Molly replied. "Teddy wanted to build sandcastles."

Hermione's mind was racing. Everyone was together. How could any of them summon the Death Eaters?

"Podmore," Draco said suddenly. "Where's Sturgis?"

"In his room," Molly said. "I popped in on my way up to let him know what was going on. He looked dreadful—so peaky. I told him I'd have Hestia bring him up a potion."

An image of the man's easy-going smile and thatch of sunny hair flashed before Hermione's eyes. It _couldn't_ be him. He hadn't even been there to hear Ndidi's address.

Unless…

"Did you happen to tell him where we were going?" she asked.

"Oh yes. He was quite interested in knowing exactly where that witch lived. Said he used to live near Leicester Square himself…"

Hermione met Draco's eyes in a moment of shared realisation.

"Merlin, it's _Sturgis_ ," she said, and then they were racing, no time to waste, down the staircase.

Hermione got there first, Remus and Draco just a fraction of a second behind. She flung open the door to find the wizard sat in his wheelchair, a leather-bound notebook in his hand.

He snapped it shut.

"What's going on?" he asked with a smile, all innocence and charm although his eyes were tinged with red and his jaw strained. He tried to tuck the book innocuously down the side of his chair, but Remus was upon him straight away. Keeping his wand pointed at the man's chest, he snatched up the pad and flipped it open.

"Addresses," he said sharply. "No prizes for guessing where."

Hermione's heart sank as she joined him and realised it wasn't just addresses Sturgis had handed over to the Death Eaters. Scrawled below were a set of instructions for disabling the complicated wards protecting the house—silently and without warning any of the occupants what was going on outside.

As they stared, struck dumb with betrayal, two words appeared in thick black ink beneath.

_Ten minutes._

A moment, as the group absorbed the full horror of so few letters, and then Remus lifted his head. Below his moustache, his mouth set into a grim line.

"They're coming."

 

* * *

 

Six hundred seconds. That was all they had. And Merlin help them, they would make the bloody most of it.

Tonks was the first to leave, little Teddy clinging to her neck. Kingsley, Hestia and Angelina left next, the latter already tending to a catatonic Sturgis Podmore.

The moment they had begun preparations to escape, Sturgis had tried to turn his wand on himself. Fortunately, Draco had swifter reactions than she; he had pinned the older man's arm behind his head, immobilising him completely as he broke into shuddering sobs.

"I'm sorry," he had choked. "Please just kill me. Please. I'm so sorry."

Hermione had almost been in tears herself at the sight of him, distraught and begging in his wheelchair, but then Remus put them all out of their misery by stunning him where he sat. Kingsley had said, however, that the suicide attempt was a sure sign the man had been under the Imperius curse—or at least, some variation of it—and Hermione quite agreed. Bellatrix was just the sort to command someone to kill themselves should they be discovered.

Regrouping in the hallway, a few minutes later, it was decided almost unanimously that the rest would stay and fight. Hermione herself was the only dissenter, but then again, she was the only one who'd seen how badly this could end.

She knew it was different. She knew this time they had the upper hand. She just couldn't shake the feeling, deep in her gut, that something terrible was about to happen.

And, this time, like all others, she wouldn't be able to stop it.

She evidently looked as overwrought as she felt, because when the others spread about the ground floor, armed and ready for the Death Eaters' assault, Draco caught her hand and tugged her into the library.

The library. The room where this entire misadventure began. Ndidi's books and Hermione's own notes were still spread out on the rug, exactly as she'd left them so long ago.

Except it wasn't so long ago, was it? To Draco, it was just last night. Last night when he'd scowled at her from the sofa. Last night when she'd dropped that book right on his head. Last night when they'd stayed up so late, heads bent together and excitement rising as they'd discovered something that could change the entire course of the war.

Hermione sagged back against the wall. Just last night, and so much had changed since.

"Are you okay?" Draco murmured, searching her expression.

"Yeah, I just…" His body was tense, just inches from hers, his eyes so concerned—and her heart twisted.

She couldn't lose him. Not again.

"This is our last chance," she whispered, and he exhaled a long breath. He was so close she felt it, fluttering the ends of her hair.

"I know."

"You have to promise me you'll stay alive." She gave him a pleading look. "No heroics. Not this time."

He rubbed a hand across his forehead.

"Granger…"

"No. I mean it. Not after…" She paused, feeling her throat contract like the sudden clench of a fist.

Could she say it? Could she tell him what he'd said, way back in that hallway, their dead friends all around?

"After what?" he prompted gently. "After I kissed you?"

She swallowed.

"It wasn't just a kiss, though, was it?"

His forehead creased, uncertainty in his eyes, and Hermione ached for him to remember. Ached for him to _know_.

"You told me you loved me," she whispered. His whole face jerked, visibly startled.

"I told you…?" he echoed, staring down at her.

"You told me you loved me," she repeated, voice a little stronger. Then, because it hurt her pride that he looked quite so stumped, and also because she was starting to wonder whether twenty-fourth loop Draco had simply been caught up in the moment, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Isn't it true?" she asked sharply.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then he swallowed, hard.

And although it was neither the time nor the place, although the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock beside them revealed the Death Eaters to be mere minutes away, Hermione felt her heart shatter into a million tiny pieces.

"I see," she said flatly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a Dark witch to defeat." She went to tug away, but he pressed his hand to the wall and trapped her.

"Well of _course_ it's true," he said, looking faintly exasperated. "I just… I'm a bit incredulous that I _told_ you."

When she blinked at him, he gave a sheepish shrug. "I've wanted to for ages, you see."

There was a rushing in Hermione's ears, and this time, it was nothing to do with that damn clock dragging her back in time.

"Ages?" she echoed dazedly.

"Ages," he confirmed. His mouth quirked into that half-smile she knew so well. "Why else would I launch myself so very readily between you and a Killing Curse?"

Hermione's heart was soaring. She hadn't realised how hard she'd been hoping, how much she'd put on those words, whispered as they were in the aftermath of a kiss.

"Don't do it this time," she whispered. "I can't watch you die again."

His lashes fluttered as he looked down.

"Hermione…"

"I mean it," she said again. "You have to promise me. No heroics."

Muffled footsteps across the porch—so faint she'd think she were imagining it had she not known what was coming—sent adrenaline coursing through her blood.

Malfoy straightened sharply, wand in hand, and the adrenaline turned to sudden and wild desperation.

" _Draco_ ," she whispered, and he delivered a quick, hard kiss to her mouth. His lips lingered, just for a moment, but time was running out.

"No heroics," he promised, and then the front door burst open.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the wonderful response so far. I hope you enjoy this penultimate instalment.

It was, Hermione realised, no wonder the Order had been so completely taken by surprise. The Death Eaters' attack was fierce, swift and from all angles.

She and Draco used the library doorway for shelter, shooting off spells then drawing sharply back as their attackers returned fire.

Hermione pressed her back to the wall. She could hear the shatter of glass, the crash of furniture, a cry from Molly in the kitchen. For a moment, her heart juddered in panic, but then Mrs Weasley yelled again, followed swiftly by a floor-rocking explosion, and she realised it was just the older woman's battle cry.

 _Give them hell, Molly_ , she thought with vindictive pleasure.

On the other side of the door frame, Draco recoiled with a sharp hiss of pain.

"Did I hit you, sweetie?" Bellatrix mocked from the hallway. "Did I hurt you?"

He gritted his teeth, breathing heavily, and clamped a hand across his bicep.

"You hit?" Hermione asked, a little out of breath herself. He grimaced.

"Yeah."

" _Draco_ ," Bellatrix crooned. She sounded closer, so Hermione whipped a curse around the door. It sizzled as the older witch batted it aside.

"Remus!" Hermione cried, and across the hall, from behind the living room door, the wizard released a barrage of spells. Bellatrix let out a screech of outrage and turned on him, hissing and spitting like a wild cat. It gave Hermione the opportunity to dart across the doorway.

"Is it bad?" There was blood seeping right through his jumper. "Dammit," she cursed, catching his sleeve. "Dammit. Let me look."

He tried to tug away.

"It's fine."

It really wasn't. His jaw was clenched in pain.

"Poor little Draco." Bellatrix's voice drifted through the open door. "Does it hurt, darling? It's the least you deserve for what you did to Cissy."

Draco's head jerked at the mention of his mother.

"The Dark Lord was furious," the witch sing-songed. There was a loud crack as she blocked another of Remus's curses, and her voice grew shrill with sudden rage. "You betrayed him!" she screamed and Draco flinched. "You betrayed your _blood_! And my sister paid the price!"

Draco inhaled a shaky breath. He'd gone so pale, and Hermione didn't know whether it was loss of blood—Merlin, it was _everywhere_ —or the thought of his mother and what Voldemort had done to her…

"Don't listen," she said urgently, lifting a hand to his chest. "Draco, don't listen to her."

But Bellatrix didn't stop.

"Did I hurt you, Draco?" she crooned again. "Are you bleeding like Mummy did when we punished her?" Her voice was getting closer, low and sickly sweet like syrup. "She didn't scream at all, you know. Not once. And he tortured her for _hours_."

He flinched again, pain and guilt written plainly across his face, and Hermione realised that if Bellatrix rounded that door, he wouldn't be able to defend himself. Might not even want to.

"Draco," she whispered. "We need to move."

He was breathing harshly, his chest rising rapidly beneath her fingers, but let her tug him along the wall. She could hear fighting in the kitchen still, so she steered him swiftly across the room towards the study. They would be safer there, in a room with just one door to defend.

She didn't know where Remus was. She hoped he hadn't been hurt—or worse. She hoped no one had.

"Granger!" Draco grabbed her with sudden and bruising force. He took her down, hard, and the next thing she knew, she was on her back, shielded by his body as a blast of blistering red light struck the wall above them.

His face had dropped into her neck, and with it went Hermione's stomach.

_No. Not again._

"Draco!" She grabbed his shoulder in panic. "Draco?!"

A moment drawn long and tense, where Hermione thought she might _burst_ with terror, but then he reared up over her, and relief washed over her like a wave.

"You okay?" he asked, searching her face with frantic eyes. She pressed a palm to his blood-soaked shoulder.

"Are you?"

"Oh look," Bellatrix cackled from the doorway. "The little Mudblood's playing _nurse_."

With a vicious cry, she whipped another spell their way. Still on her back, Hermione blocked it with a hasty charm, then Draco dragged her by the leg behind the sofa.

She sat up, heart pounding, as she glanced wildly around for an escape route.

They needed to get out of here, and fast. She should have expected it—had been stupid not to—but Bellatrix had set her sights on her nephew. He had betrayed the Dark Lord. He had humiliated his family. He had, no matter how unintentionally, caused his mother to be tortured.

And his mad aunt wasn't the sort of person to let a crime like that go unpunished.

"Poor Cissy," she said, and for the briefest moment, sounded truly sad for her sister. But then she was stomping across the room towards them, screeching her fury. "Shame she spawned such a _coward_!"

Her next curse blasted the bookcase behind them. Books, paper, ornaments exploded everywhere as she fired again and again and again, until finally, and with an almighty groan, the entire cupboard came toppling down.

Hermione flung her arms over her head—a weak attempt, certainly, in the face of eight foot of solid wood—but the crushing blow never came. With a loud crash, the cabinet came to a juddering stop, wood splintering, books raining down all around them.

A moment of silence, then Bellatrix let out a shrill peal of laughter.

" _Whoops_ -a-daisy."

Hermione peeked out from beneath her arms to find the bookcase lodged on the back of the sofa, barely a foot above her head.

Her breath shuddered through her chest. Merlin. She'd thought it was the end.

"Granger?" Draco panted from beside her. He caught her arm, then brought his hand up to briefly cup her face. "Okay?" When she nodded, a little dazedly, he gestured for her to follow him. "Come on."

She did so, dragging herself to her knees and crawling carefully over the scattered shards of broken china and fractured wood.

"I'm coming to get you, Draco," Bellatrix sang, voice getting louder with every step. "You and your Mudblood girlfriend."

Hermione heard the witch draw closer, heels crunching on the carnage, and felt her heart speed up in fear.

They were running out of time. This was her last chance, her last loop, and she was _running out of time._

"I think I'll kill her first," Bellatrix mused, and she sounded close. Too close. Hermione twisted sharply back towards the sound, her wand out, her heart pounding. She was well aware of how vulnerable she was, trapped on the ground beneath the bookshelf, no way up or down.

"Shall I make you watch, Draco baby?" Bellatrix crooned, and her razor-toed boots stopped in plain sight. "Shall I make you watch her die?"

Behind her, Draco wriggled free. His arms went around her middle at the exact moment the witch crouched, black lace pooling on the ground around her, a maniacal grin on her face.

"Gotcha!" she crowed, launching herself towards them.

And Hermione saw her chance.

" _Evanesco_!" she cried, and with a muted pop, the sofa vanished into thin air. Draco hauled her backwards, and not a moment too soon: with nothing to hold it up, the bookcase fell. Bellatrix's eyes widened briefly, but then she was gone, the cupboard crashing to the ground on top of her.

Silence, as she and Draco stared, stock still on the floor, breathless. Was... was she...?

But then the witch started screaming.

"Get me out!" she screeched. "You'll regret this, you stupid Mudblood bitch! Get me out!"

"You keep your hands off her!" Remus burst through the door, wand drawn, ready for battle. Then he stopped, short, mouth dropping open as he took in the scene.

The fallen bookcase. The shocked look on Hermione's and Draco's faces. The notorious witch kicking and screaming beneath several hundred pounds of solid oak.

And then he started laughing. Loudly. Uninhibitedly. And as the sound echoed off the rafters, Hermione felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She leant back into Draco's warm wide chest and smiled as he tightened his arms around her.

It was done. It was _over_.

"Oh Merlin," Remus said after a minute. "I can't tell you how much I needed to see that."

"Get me out, you stupid dog!" Bellatrix howled. "I'll kill you. I'll kill you all!"

"Quiet," he ordered, moving round the sofa to where she lay, pinned liked the Wicked Witch of the East beneath Dorothy's house. He eyed Hermione and Draco, still sat together on the floor, in concern. "Are you two alright?"

"I'm okay," Hermione said as Malfoy stood and helped her to her feet, "but Draco's hurt."

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, a hand pressed to his wound.

"I'm fine," he said, although the pool of blood had spread right across his chest. "It's just a graze."

"I'll do more than graze you next time, you treacherous little weasel!" Bellatrix screeched, punctuating her threat with several kicks of her legs.

"There will be no next time," Remus said severely, then vanished the cupboard from atop her. " _Petrificus totalus_ ," he cursed when she instantly lunged for her fallen wand, and Bellatrix slammed back to the ground, her whole body rigid.

"Is everything all right in here?" The door banged as Molly hurried into the room, closely followed by Arthur and George. At the sight of them, dust and plaster in their hair but otherwise unharmed, Hermione felt her breath whoosh through her lungs.

Everyone was well and accounted for. They were _safe_. It was over.

"Get up," Remus ordered, his wand firmly trained on the fallen witch. "Slowly. Leave your wand on the floor."

"Are you going to kill me?" Bellatrix sneered through her jammed teeth. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she fought the curse, lips curled, body twitching, but her eyes, black and glittering like onyx, were fixed unerringly on Draco.  "Are you going to _Crucio_ me? That's what we did to Mummy."

" _Incarcerous_ ," Remus said blandly, and the witch hissed and bared her teeth, all twitching ceasing as ropes lashed themselves tightly around her.

"She's your _sister_." Draco's voice was as dark as her eyes, hot with anger, but Bellatrix simply smirked.

"I do whatever the Dark Lord asks of me." Her lips stretched wide and thin and wet with blood. " _Whatever_ he asks."

"Where's your wand?" Remus asked sharply, eyes searching the floor. Bellatrix laughed once, wild and cruel, and all the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck bristled with a terrifying moment of premonition.

"And he asked me to kill _you_!" she screamed, the ropes gone, spell broken in an instant, and lunged towards Draco.

The curse was fast and white hot, and Hermione had time for just one lucid thought.

_My turn, Malfoy._

The words rang clear in her mind, and then she hurled herself in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger - sorry! Stay tuned for the final chapter.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Thank you for all your kind words so far. I hope this is the ending you were waiting for.

When Hermione came to consciousness, the first thing she realised was that she was in pain. Not a lot, but a dull sort of throb, deep inside and just behind her rib cage.

The next thing she realised, a moment or two later, was that she could hear the ocean in the distance and seabirds circling somewhere high above.

_No._

Her eyes snapped open, but instead of bookshelves and sunlight and sloping ceilings, she saw low crooked beams and colourful shells pressed in patterns into plaster.

Shell Cottage. She was in Shell Cottage.

The relief was immediate and immense. She slumped back against the sheets, releasing a long breath—then winced as the movement sent pain rocketing right through her chest. Like stitch, only a hundred times worse.

" _Holy_ …" She sucked in a breath, a stream of expletives hurtling through her mind. But then she laughed, blinking through watery eyes at the ceiling above.

Because it was over. It was really and truly over.

The sound of soft breathing caught her attention, and she turned her head to find Draco slumped in a chair beside the window, eyes closed and cheek resting on his palm. His other arm, the one Bellatrix had injured, was tucked securely against his chest in a sling, not a single drop of blood in sight.

She rested her head back against the pillow and savoured a moment of pure and unfettered happiness.

She had done it. The day was over, and Draco was safe.

Another laugh rippled inside her. It had only taken twenty-six attempts and a curse to the chest.

There were dark circles beneath his eyes, lashes resting peacefully on his cheek. Through the net curtains behind him, she could see the sky was clear blue, with the barest smattering of fluffy white clouds. Not the usual time for sleep, which made her wonder how long he'd been sat there, how long he'd held vigil.

_For her._

Warmth puddled in her chest, and she pushed herself up a little higher on the pillows, hoping to find a more comfortable position while she waited for him to wake. But as she wriggled, a certain something resting on the sideboard at the far end of the room snagged her eye and made her still.

Enekpe's clock. Whole and undamaged, the goddess standing tall and proud and graceful as the water swirled all about her.

Hermione expected to feel a surge of anger for all it had put her through—for trapping her alone, for forcing her to watch her friends die over and over, for pushing her to the brink of madness—but all she felt was peace.

They were alive. All of them. And she never had to wake up on that damn library floor again.

"Ndidi wanted you to have it," Draco said, voice rough with sleep and making her start. "She figured you'd find somewhere safe for it."

She'd certainly gotten _that_ right. Hermione would chain the thing to the bottom of the bloody ocean if it meant no one else had to go through what she had.

She leant her head back against the pillows, enjoying the sight of him by the window, hair tousled and eyes bleary.

"You're awake," she said.

"So are you." He cocked his head, concern on his face. "How do you feel?"

"Okay I think," she said, pulling the blankets up towards her chest, then wincing as the movement sent the sharpest of pains lancing right though her. She gasped, breathless, and Malfoy was at her side in an instant.

"Does it hurt?"

She nodded, in too much pain to speak, and he grabbed a potion from the bedside table.

"Here," he said, pouring out a shot of thick sludgy looking liquid. "Drink this."

She did so and, despite the fact it felt like drinking frogspawn, was pleased to find it worked almost instantly. She relaxed into the cushions and pressed a hand to her chest. It felt almost like there should be a physical wound there, a hole right down to her heart, but her skin was unblemished with not even a hint of hard scar tissue.

"What happened?" she asked.

Draco appeared relieved to see her face clear and dragged the chair up to the edge of her bed.

"You," he said, giving her a stern look as he sat, "threw yourself in between me and a deadly curse."

She remembered _that_ , of course. Well, the pain of it, slicing through her chest like a blade. After that, she'd hit the ground, hard enough to send sparks dancing before her eyes. Then it was mostly a blur: a cacophony of spells, a thud, frantic voices, then Draco, always Draco.

His warm hands on her face. His silver eyes swimming in her vision. His voice, low and soothing, then pleading as she'd drifted into blackness.

"You worried the hell out of me," he said sharply. "I'd shake you if it weren't for the punctured lung."

_That_ drew her back to the present with a bump.

"Punctured lung?" she echoed, startled.

"Yes." A shadow passed across his face. "Whatever the hell that spell was, it was Dark. We thought…" He looked down and swallowed. "Well, for a while, we weren't sure you'd make it."

It was a frightening thought, that she had come so close to never waking up again. But not enough to make her regret it.

"How long's a while?" she asked quietly.

"A day or two until we knew for sure." He'd said it casually enough, but there was a tenseness to his jaw that made her wonder how he'd felt those two days where she'd been touch-and-go. Whether he'd felt anything close to anguish she had when she'd watched him die over and over... She wouldn't wish such pain on anyone, of course, but there was a part of her, a small part, that _hoped_.

"You were lucky," he went on. "We got you to Angelina almost straight away."

"And the others?"

"All fine. No other injuries aside from a few scrapes and bruises."

That wasn't quite true though, was it? Her eyes landed on his bandaged shoulder.

"It's fine," he said, noting the direction of her gaze. "I told you. It was just a graze."

The memory of the first time he'd told her that, just a moment before Bellatrix struck with a curse that nearly ended her life, made Hermione's stomach churn.

"Did you—did Bellatrix…"

"She's still alive. We Stupified her." His mouth set in a hard line. "I… I almost cast a different spell at her."

The deadly look in his eye sent a thrill right up her spine, but Hermione was glad he hadn't killed his aunt. She remembered how haunted he'd looked, back in the library, as Bellatrix had taunted him about his mother, about his decision to leave. His past plagued him enough. He didn't need her death on his hands as well.

"Good," she said. "Maybe Remus will get something useful out of her."

"Maybe," he replied, although both of them knew it was a long shot.

Still, Hermione remembered with a sudden surge of hope, they had Ndidi and her research on Horcruxes. The war may still be raging, but thanks to Enekpe and her clock, the Order was still very much alive, a number of influential Death Eaters were not, and they had a very real chance of finding and destroying every last one of Voldemort's Horcruxes.

Her gaze drifted towards said clock, sat benignly on the sideboard. Maybe that was its intention all along: not to save any individual life, but to save the _future_.

Hermione was just glad she was the only one who'd had to sacrifice to accomplish it.

Evidently, what she was thinking was written very clearly across her face, because Draco narrowed his eyes at her.

"Don't look so bloody pleased with yourself," he said severely. "It was a silly thing to do jumping in front of me like that. You had no idea what the curse would do to you."

"I didn't really care," she said blithely and enjoyed the way he scowled. "You saved my life too many times to count. And don't," she added when he opened his mouth, "say it wasn't you, because it was. And I know you'd have done the same this time round if I hadn't made you promise."

"Maybe I should have made _you_ promise," he muttered grumpily, but his eyes were warm and crinkling a little at the corners, and she knew he wasn't _really_ angry with her—just worried.

It made her love him all the more.

"I'm sorry," she said, reaching for his free hand. "But you know I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"I do know." He slanted her a flat look even as his fingers laced in hers. "Blasted Gryffindors."

The same, of course, could be said for a certain blasted Slytherin. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"Just returning the favour," she said, and he huffed out a laugh.

"Right. Just please, Merlin, don't do it twenty times. I'm not sure my heart can handle it."

She smiled, a little poignantly, because hers _had_ had to handle it, and she knew she'd never forget the image of Draco crashing back into the shelves, never forget that blaze of green light. Not for as long as she lived.

But looking at him now, tired-eyed, arm in a sling, but _alive_ —alive and sat vigil at her bedside, open affection in his eyes…

Well, it made it all worth it, didn't it?

"Your heart, huh?" she asked, and he gave her hand a squeeze.

"Did I say heart?" he said innocently. "I meant nerves." When she huffed and tugged her hand away, he just chuckled and snatched it right back. "So," he said with a look that sent shivers down her spine. "I'm curious. How many times did I launch myself in front of a Killing Curse before I finally got my act together and kissed you?"

"You didn't," she said, and he blinked.

"But I thought—"

"We kissed? We did. Only _I_ kissed you."

His eyes were suddenly all sorts of hot.

"Oh?"

" _Twice_."

He edged a little closer.

"It was pretty good," she added as nonchalantly as she could while admiring the long lean slope of his shoulder, the way his jumper pulled taut across the hard plane of his chest, the blond hairs on his forearms that caught in the light.

"Was it?" he asked hoarsely.

"It was." His eyes were on her mouth, intent utterly transparent, and it was doing delicious things to her insides. "It's a shame you don't remember."

"A great shame," he agreed in a husky voice.

"Maybe," she said, cocking her head a little, "I should remind you."

"Merlin, Hermione, remind me," he said with a groan, and then he leant in and kissed her.

This kiss was softer, slower, than that first desperate snog in the hallway. He held her face in his free hand, taking his time as he gently discovered her lips.

Or _re_ discovered, as the case was for Hermione. Impatient, she pressed closer, sheets twisting about her legs, and she sighed as he slipped his hand down her hip, warm and solid through the thin blankets.

It felt… it felt _right_. Like this was where she was supposed to be.

"So," he said softly as he withdrew, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Everyone else has gone into hiding. Fancy sticking with me a little while longer?"

A thrill ran through her, but she couldn't resist a playful quirk of her brow.

"We _do_ have research to finish…"

He gave her a look hot enough to melt metal.

"I'm not talking about research."

"A Dark Lord to defeat…"

"I'm not talking about _him_ either."

She pursed her lips.

"I'll consider it," she said, although of course she already knew the answer, and he kissed her again.

"Tease," he murmured, and she flung her arms around his neck with a laugh.

"Of course I'll stay with you. And not just so you can be my research assistant."

"Assistant?" he asked, indignant, and she laughed again.

But then her eye caught on the clock, sat where Ndidi had left it, on the cupboard at the end of the room.

And something was different.

The goddess still stood, regal, inside the spiral of water, the children playing at her feet. But her _face_ , always so sombre, so pensive. Hermione could have sworn…

"What's wrong?" Draco turned to follow her gaze.

She squinted at the clock. It looked—well, it looked as if… No. She was being ridiculous. Whatever she'd seen must have been a trick of light.

"Hermione?" Draco slid his hand up her leg. "Are you okay?"

Concern laced his voice, so she shook herself out of it and smiled at him.

"I'm fine," she said and kissed him, bidding herself to forget it.

The kiss escalated quickly, and soon she was panting, gasping, as his hand ran all over her.

But still, as the kiss grew hotter, harder, as she tugged him up over her and onto the bed, as he muttered darkly about his damn sling getting in the way, and his mouth found that spot on her throat where her pulse thrummed like a wild thing, she couldn't help a quick and suspicious glance over his shoulder.

Because she could have _sworn_ Enekpe had been smiling at them.


End file.
